


Shibboleths

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Ancient magic, Atlantis, Background Femslash, Background Het, Background Relationships, Community: hd_erised, Dogs, Frottage, HP: EWE, Hogwarts, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Mythology - Freeform, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Stillbirth, Plants, Professor Dudley, Some features not tagged due to spoilers, Statute of Secrecy, Teacher Draco Malfoy, Teacher Harry Potter, demiguise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-09 16:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 109,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12892452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: Muggle Immersion co-Professor Harry Potter spends his days hanging with his son, reading to his "dog," teaching magical kids about the internet with his cousin Dudley, and irritating Snape’s portrait. He’s understandably annoyed when his cosy life is interrupted by the Headmistress hiring on Draco Malfoy to be Hogwarts’ new Ancient Magical Cultures and Spellcasting professor. But then the explosion happens, and it turns out they'll all need Malfoy's knowledge if they want the magical world to survive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/gifts).



> Thank you to T and A for the above-and-beyond alpha and beta work, to bixgirl1 for answering many giftee questions, to M and L for the language assistance. Carpe: I started with your ‘Harry and Draco are Hogwarts professors’ prompt and...this is what happened. I hope you like it. :)
> 
> DO NOT REPOST OR ARCHIVE THIS FIC ANYWHERE. (I can't believe I am having to put this notice up again. What happened to fandom etiquette?)
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

**June 2013**

Malfoy was hired at Hogwarts exactly three days after his five years of house arrest (and further seven years of—entirely self-imposed—exile) ended. Harry knew because he pitched a fantastic fit that morning in the Headmistress’s office.

“You can’t be serious.”

The discussion started very politely, very earnestly, very—in Harry’s opinion—reasonably.

“Quite serious,” said Minerva, and Harry really should’ve taken note of the rolled ‘r’ in her tone, which would have indicated to any reasonable person that she was nearing the end of her rope, but Harry was quite adamant. He had enough Slytherins to deal with at meals and staff meetings. They weren’t terrible people, but they glared a lot and seemed to find everything amusing, even when they were just discussing the roster for the house Quidditch teams, and Harry didn’t want to be out-numbered.

Adding Malfoy to an already Slytherin-heavy mix was just too much for Harry’s health and well-being.

“It’s not that he’s evil or anything, in case that’s what you’re thinking. I know that’s what everyone always thinks when I lodge a complaint against anything Malfoy-related,” he felt compelled to add.

Though, come to think of it, he hadn’t had any reason to lodge a complaint against Malfoy in twelve years—and he’d rather hoped to keep it that way.

Minerva looked up from her letter and gave him a flat look.

Harry uncrossed his legs and crossed them again the other direction. “It’s just—and if I may—he’s such a _twat_ , Headmistress. And don’t we have enough of the twatty sort of Slytherins on staff as it is? There’s Pansy, for example. I have to share Heads of House meetings with her every week as it is. This is putting me under a great deal of strain and I fear my students will suffer the brunt of it.”

Minerva snorted. “You get on fine with Professor Parkinson now. I don’t see why after a few weeks in Professor Malfoy’s company, you won’t soften to him, as well.”

He grimaced, imagining what ‘softening to Malfoy’ would entail.

“I don’t know that I _want_ to. It doesn’t feel…natural.”

“Harry,” Minerva said. He looked up. “We need an Ancient Cultures and Casting instructor to round out the new history curriculum and stay competitive with Beauxbatons—and which, I may remind you, you voted in favour of—and he’s the _only_ British expert with both the qualifications and the desire to work for a teacher’s pay.”

He sighed. This was what defeat felt like. If he was honest with himself, Harry had known before he ever came up the spiral stairs that there was no getting rid of Malfoy. Not now that he’d signed the teaching contract.

Harry really didn’t even know why he cared so much. It wasn’t like Malfoy was a bad bloke (anymore). In truth, he’d been rather decent the few times they’d run into one another during Malfoy’s very rare and very brief returns to Britain after his house arrest ended.

There was just…something. Just a little twinge of annoyance at Malfoy not even letting Harry be a professor without barging in to do it, too. This was Harry’s life; he’d made a home here at Hogwarts. He’d made a name for himself as an expert in Muggle relations and not as just the Boy-Who-Lived. He liked his job and his life, and…what if Malfoy ruined it?

Still, he knew a lost cause with Minerva. He tried for some levity: “I know. I just feel really compelled to die on this hill, you know? It’s my last battle.”

Which was as honest as he was getting with her today.

“I do understand,” she admitted. “To this day, I cherish a longstanding mutual despisement with Agnes Cornfoot, who troubled me greatly in my Transfiguration studies. _‘How dare she try to overtake my marks?’_ I always thought. But I believe I did get the last laugh when she broke her hip last summer sitting down upon a chair she’d Transfigured from a feather duster just as her spell failed.”

They stared at one another for several long moments.

“You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” Harry asked.

Minerva’s lips twitched. “Perhaps.”

He sighed. “Fine, I’ll ‘make an effort’,” he said, holding up his fingers in air quotes.

“I’ve no doubt you’re equal to the task, Professor Potter,” she said briskly. “Now, don’t you have your summer trips to schedule with Professor Dursley? I know the students anxiously await your owls.”

Oh, well. At least he’d tried.

Ron would never let him live it down if he didn’t.

Harry picked himself up from the lovely tartan chair and made his way out of the Headmistress’s office. He supposed he should walk down to Hogsmeade and finalise the details for the students’ summer trips.

What on earth had possessed him to add in extra work for himself and Dudley every sodding summer?

It was lapses in judgement such as thinking more time with students was a good thing that got people like Malfoy hired on at Hogwarts as Professors of Ancient Cultures and Casting. Who the fuck cared about ancient spells? No one even used them anymore.

Apparently Malfoy, who’d spent an entire five-year house arrest reading about them like the annoying swot he was.

Harry checked his watch. If he was quick, he’d have time to stop in at Gin and Luna’s to have dinner with his son. His last night free of Malfoy.

*

“Do we really have to? Like, _really_ really?”

Draco glared at Scorpius. “Yes, we really, really do.”

Scorpius, at all of seven years of age, had already mastered the unimpressed stare Draco had not managed until sixteen. Draco blamed this on the example set by Scorpius’s maternal grandparents every time they looked at Draco. Which was fine—he was no longer obligated to see them again, and everyone was quite fine with that.

“Mummy will be there, remember?” Draco said. “It’ll be really fun to see Mummy every day, right? You always get excited when she comes to spend the summers with us, remember?”

‘Remember?’ seemed to make up more and more of Draco’s vocabulary since Scorpius started talking.

“I do wanna see Mummy. I just like my friends,” said Scorpius. “And I won’t have any there.”

Draco nearly said, ‘You’ll make some, don’t worry,’ but then remembered Scorpius would be the only child his age there. Plenty of teenagers, but Hogwarts was hardly a place for seven-year-olds. He frowned, unconsciously channelling his father before he remembered himself and said, “There will be children at your new school to be friends with.”

“Fine,” Scorpius said.

Desultory—but neatly—Scorpius continued packing his favourite plushies into his travel bag. Draco had already packed up their flat. The furniture, linens, dishes, clothes, and so on were shrunk and stacked neatly in his suitcase. He didn’t know what McGonagall would provide with his suite of rooms, but any deficiencies could always be made up for with a trip to the Manor.

Although, if it came to that, he’d never get away in time to finish his lesson plans before his meeting with the Headmistress. It was very hard to say no when Narcissa Malfoy was pouring wine down one’s throat and prying for updates on one’s life.

The last thing Draco packed were his books. An entire wall of their flat worth of books. Some he’d had from childhood, when he first developed an interest in Atlantis and other lost magical civilisations. Others were newer ones he’d had to trek the world to get his hands on. His most recent acquisition was a lucky find from Crete with an alleged firsthand account from an Atlantean sailor who’d been trading in the Americas when his home disappeared.

True or not, it was worth every outrageous Euro, if only for the spell he’d found in the margins that prevented seasickness. It’d saved Draco’s shirt when he took Scorpius sailing last month.

They finished their packing and Draco took one last tour through the flat, looking for any forgotten items or damage to fix so there would be no issues getting his deposit back. The Malfoys didn’t gain their wealth by throwing it away needlessly—a lesson he was careful to instil in Scorpius whenever they went through a museum gift shop.

Finally, they were ready. The Portkey McGonagall had secured for them from the Ministry was waiting on the kitchen counter next to his signed contract: a small toy automobile with flames painted down the sides.

“Let’s go see Mummy then, shall we?” Draco said brightly.

Scorpius gave him that unimpressed look again, but shouldered his knapsack full of plushies and held his hand out to Apparate.

“We’re taking a Portkey this time,” Draco said. “Remember? You took one to see Granny at Christmas.”

“It made me ill,” Scorpius said, curling his lip.

Fair point. Draco cast the Atlantean anti-seasickness spell on him, then held the car out. Scorpius pressed one finger to it, and Draco would have strangled him if it weren’t exactly the same sort of whinging protest he himself would’ve pulled at that age. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Scorpius’s small shoulder to make sure he didn’t get flung out when they landed, and activated the Portkey.

“ _Portus_.”

The magic pulled them away. Far away from Greece and the home they’d lived in since Scorpius was born. Away from Scorpius’s friends and towards a job Draco still wasn’t sure he was ready for.

*

Malfoy moved in with barely a word to anyone, which did not annoy Harry at all.

The Slytherins in residence—Pansy, Millicent, Adrian Pucey, Astoria Greengrass, and Theo Nott—all apparently trouped up to Malfoy’s quarters in his tower the day he arrived; Harry understood from Luna the next day that it had been a dazzling, delightful welcome party, but that she couldn’t tell him anything further without breaking a number of sacred confidences. He was not jealous, even when he found out that Dudley had managed an invite, too—apparently Millicent’s doing.

“I’m sure you understand,” Luna said gravely. She still had silver tinsel in her hair, which Harry was certain had not been brushed yet, despite them all sitting down to breakfast. He said nothing, as he hadn’t brushed his all summer.

“Oh, sure,” he said. And then, to be a good conversationalist, “But you had a good time?”

“A lovely time,” she assured him. “Isn’t it wonderful that Hogwarts finally has a fair representation of Slytherins on its staff?”

“Is it really fair, though?” Harry asked. “There’s at least half dozen of them here now, if you count Vector.”

Luna pondered this. “Yes, but we have twenty-eight teaching staff, so really we do need one more Slytherin. Although, with Fleur and Flora Fortescue having gone to Beauxbatons, and Dudley being a Muggle, I suppose we could argue it’s still—technically—fair.”

“I don’t mind the Slytherins, really,” Harry said. “I’m just a bit annoyed that we had to meet the quota with Malfoy.”

Luna nodded sagely, taking a long sip of her pineapple juice and coffee blend. Harry tried not to sick up in his own mouth. “I do understand, Harry. Perhaps you should speak to Professor Snape. He always seems to bring you back from the very edge of despair.”

“It’s not quite the edge of _despair_ ,” he insisted.

“Oh, good,” said Luna. “Then he should snap you right out of this Draco depression.”

She smiled at him, finished off her pineapple coffee, gave him a little pat on the shoulder, and then stood from the breakfast table. “I’m off to help Minerva with lesson plans. Do remember you’re taking Albus tonight so Ginny and I can go to the Rihanna concert. Have a good day and shine bright like a diamond, Harry!”

“Shine bright like a diamond,” he muttered to her retreating back. “I’ll pick him up from Molly’s after lunch!” he added.

Luna waved at him over her shoulder.

Being one of the few early risers on staff, Harry was left alone at the breakfast table in the Great Hall, save for Flitwick, who was squinting at the morning _Prophet_ over his spectacles down the other end. Despite also being an early riser, Flitwick did not gain his full personality until at least eight or nine. Harry took another piece of toast from the basket and loaded it up with butter, crunching desultorily at it.

How was it that Luna always made him feel so melodramatic? Maybe he should give up this good fight over Malfoy teaching at Hogwarts. Malfoy was only an elective teacher, after all. It wasn’t like he was the Slytherin Head of House and Harry would have to see him constantly. (No, that was just Parkinson.)

Just then, the Great Hall doors opened and Malfoy came warily in. He sat down across from Flitwick, glanced over the array of breakfast foods, and then Summoned a banana and a yoghurt. As if he’d heard Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy looked up at him with an excessively unimpressed stare. He mimed looking around, as if Harry surely wasn’t staring at him, and then finished with a heavy-lidded eye-roll in Harry’s direction.

What a twat.

This was to be Harry’s life, he supposed. A job he finally enjoyed (after that disastrous six months in Auror training) ruined by generalised, chronic discomfort because of Draco Malfoy. Who was much more tan than he’d been last time Harry ran into him.

Oh, fuck it all.

Harry had lesson plans to work on and he needed to stop devoting mental energy to Malfoy, who was not worth it, despite pulling off skin darker than his own hair very well.

Harry tossed his half-eaten toast back on the plate and stood. Malfoy ignored him. Then Harry changed his mind and grabbed the toast again. Ms Danger would eat it—and if she smelt it on his hands and he didn’t come back with any for her, he’d never get anything done today.

*


	2. Chapter 2

Dudley came late the next day, as he always did, bursting through Harry’s door with an armful of flyers and printouts from the internet.

“Hey, Harry! Hey, Al!” he said, dumping piles of papers on Harry’s sitting room table. This was followed by a couple of notebooks and a pack of mechanical pencils.

Albus, whose colouring book was displaced in the arrival, shared a look with Harry that Harry felt was disconcertingly wise beyond its years. He pushed the notebooks aside with one tiny hand and resumed colouring his Nundu with lime green stripes.

“Hi, Uncle D,” Albus said. “Are you here to do boring teaching stuff with Mum Three?”

Dudley grinned at him, his wide jaw flexing. “Afraid so, champ. But I did bring you a Frog from Hogsmeade.”

Albus’s opinion of the situation immediately flipped, and not for the first time, Harry regretted his Muggle cousin moving into a magical community. Gin and Luna lived in Hogsmeade, too, but they certainly didn’t let Albus into Honeydukes as much as Dudley sneaked him treats from there.

Dudley turned to Harry, pulling out a stick of beef jerky to snack on. “Mum says hello.”

“Does she,” Harry said, grimacing.

“Well,” Dudley amended, as he settled into a seat on the sofa and bit into his beef jerky. “She did acknowledge that I was skipping out early on Sunday brunch with her to take her _fireplace_ to Scotland where I’d be spending my weekend with _you_ instead of her.”

“That sounds more like her,” Harry said, smiling despite himself. “Did you get the textbooks ordered?”

They’d only just selected last night which texts they’d use this year—after a lesson-planning session that ate into dinner and resulted in Harry having to order takeaway for him and Al. Dudley refused to eat takeaway, which was fine with them. Harry had never seen a child put away as much Chana Masala as Albus could.

Harry and Dudley were cutting it close again this year, as they did every year. But to be fair, neither of them had read _White Teeth_ by Zadie Smith before Hermione forced it on them, and they were both notoriously slow readers. Like all their Muggle literature choices for their upper years, the hope was that it would help to illustrate merging cultures—the good and the bad—in a way magical children could understand.

“Yep, Waterstones is shipping them to the Hogwarts postbox. Owls should have them redirected by the end of the week. And I brought scones, from Mum.”

“Poisoned?” asked Harry.

Dudley peered into the Tupperware. “Doesn’t look like it. I didn’t see any bleach or anything out on the countertop when she was baking them this morning. Want one? I mean, Madam Pomfrey and Mr Lao could fix you up anyway, even if she did poison them.”

“Suppose you’re right,” Harry said, but he still made sure he ate a bite of his before he allowed Albus to gorge on the rest.

Plus, he was hungry. Malfoy had put him off his breakfast by exaggeratedly looking around when he caught Harry staring again, and by the time he’d got back to his room with his (again) half-eaten toast, Ms Danger had already sniffed him out and he couldn’t renege on giving her the delicious, warm, crunchy, buttery toast. Harry sighed desirously just remembering the smell.

He took a second scone and bit into it. Black currant with a lovely orange zest and no aftertaste of borax whatsoever.

“Thanks, Dud.”

“Thanks, Uncle D.”

Dudley grinned at them. “I’ll leave ‘em with you, if you don’t mind. Mum still hasn’t quite accepted that I’m off carbs.”

“Your mother lives in a fantasy world,” came a sneering voice from the other side of the room.

Dudley rolled his eyes at the hearth above Harry’s sitting room fireplace. “Says the talking painting.”

“I am perfectly sentient,” Snape replied.

Snape was in a Scottish moorland landscape, upon which Harry had painted in a number of Scottish Terriers, to varying degrees of success. It was Astoria’s fault—she’d hosted a Lush ‘n’ Brush night for the staff one weekend, and Harry had been far too intrigued by the magic involved in creating sentient paintings. And far too drunk to stop himself.

“And perfectly dead, which you’d know is closer to a fantasy world than my mum not knowing what to feed me anymore,” said Dudley.

“Hello, young Albus Severus.” Snape was the only person dedicated to using Al’s full name. Harry suspected he thought each repetition would make Harry and Gin regret their choice, but Snape had been dead far too long if he thought either of them were the type to have regrets.

“Hey, Professor. You brewing anything today?” asked Albus.

“Several batches of Felix Felicis in hopes I will be lucky enough to lose sentience before the end of the world.”

“Cool,” said Albus.

Dudley rolled his eyes in Harry’s direction, and Harry shook his head, fighting a smirk.

Dudley turned back to Snape, who was currently petting one of Harry’s earliest Scottie attempts. “Anyway, I picked something up for you, Professor Snape.”

He rooted around in his backpack and pulled out a lovely oval, 5” x 7”, gold-leafed, wooden frame. Inside, there was a dreary _Wuthering Heights_ -esque landscape painted on canvas.

“Thought Harry could wand up something for you in this so you could get out of the castle a bit. You must be really bored only having those stuffy old portraits to talk to.”

Harry glanced at the hearth in time to see Snape perk up, despite being in a landscape that Harry had, slowly, over the years, been adding more and more Scottish Terriers to using acrylic paint from Albus’s play sets. Snape was the only portrait to ever visit, and Harry’d always just felt like Scotties were cute enough to annoy Snape. Each new Scottie was better than the ones from the Lush ‘n’ Brush night, so it was now a practice in creativity just as much as it was shit-stirring.

“How unexpectedly considerate, given your ancestry and upbringing, Mr Dursley.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Albus followed suit.

“No problem,” said Dudley. “I saw it in Waterstones and it seemed just the thing.”

“Potter, I do believe if you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said. “I’ll connect it to your Hogwarts portrait so you can jump over. You can come with us on the summer school trips.”

Albus grinned at his green Nundu, said nothing.

“And speaking of,” said Dudley, grabbing one of the flyers in the stack. “I’ve got a brilliant idea for this summer. It’s a bit risqué, but I think wizarding children will feel more…at home.”

Harry raised his eyebrows as he read the flyer. This was going to require a carefully worded note home with the students’ permission slips.

*

# August 19, 2013

It was not the first year Harry and Dudley had done the much-anticipated annual _‘Muggles are fun, too, really!’_ summer school trip for their Muggle Immersion students, but it was the first year they’d decided to risk something more exciting than a day at Brighton Pier. Dudley was uncomfortably upbeat as an adult, however, which was the only explanation Harry could give to the fact that he and his soon-to-be-second-year Ravenclaws and Slytherins were on their way to meet him at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

They were halfway to the meeting spot and Harry’s students were already craning necks to better see a purple-haired busker when it happened.

The sound was all-encompassing, almost deafening in its silence—a silence that stretched wide across the whole city and even inside Harry’s head so that, for a brief moment, he couldn’t even hear himself think. When sound returned, the normal hum of busy streets was agonising against his eardrums.

He stopped before a display of custom burlesque headdresses, blinking. His students turned as one to stare at him with huge, startled eyes. Some were squishing fingers in their ears to ease the pressure, some pulling at earlobes. A muffled yelling came from his satchel and he realised belatedly that he hadn’t let Snape out yet. Well, he was going to have to wait a bit longer.

“What was that, Professor Potter? Did you feel it?”

“It was so loud!” Avani Prance said.

“No, it was really quiet!” Yasmin Ghraib replied. To Harry, she added, “Even quieter than my mum gets when she’s about to yell at me.”

Just then came a _boom!_ —a hideously low-frequency explosion of sound that literally vibrated the air in front of their eyes, shook the ground, and shattered shop windows. Stunned festival-goers screamed as displays of brassieres covered in Swarovski tumbled to the asphalt. Two of his students fainted dead away and the rest started crying, even Bran Morris, who, at twelve, was already cultivating a precise ‘man’s man’ persona among his fellow future second years.

“The fuck was that?” Harry whispered, before he remembered himself.

His students were too stunned or deafened to care about his profanity; they stared at him again, their eyes wide with terror, mouths moving frantically, but Harry couldn’t make out the words. That was when he realised his ears were ringing. People were running for cover. Quickly, he _Ennervated_ his fainted students and hauled them up. He spared a moment for Dudley, somewhere in the crowd before them, but the students had to come first. Something was not right, and they had to _move_.

“We’ve got to go,” he told them, but didn’t hear the words come out of his mouth. He said it again, over-enunciating the words and the children’s eyes tracked his mouth as they nodded.

Harry held his arm out, guiding them quickly back through the street. He did a headcount, making sure they were all there. They fairly ran to the alley they arrived in, and Harry pulled the Portkey from his pocket. He’d never seen students catch on so quickly. They all grabbed it, he counted them one more time, activated it, and they were spinning back to Hogwarts in seconds.

*

Madam Pomfrey and her new assistant, Mr Lao—taken on due to the surge in magical students Hogwarts had seen enrolled since the end of the War—had their hearing repaired and the students sent home within a couple of hours. By then, Minerva had come by with that tight expression on her face that meant nothing good was going to be in the evening _Prophet_.

She’d had the same expression when she told Harry she was offering Draco Malfoy a job.

“We’ve an emergency staff meeting,” Minerva told him. “Fifteen minutes. Can you hear yet?”

“Yeah, still a bit of tinnitus, but it’s fading.”

Minerva gave him a dark look. “Ghastly ailment. Sometimes it never fades. My left ear’s been shrieking like a banshee since the final battle.” She shook her head, took in a deep breath. “Come up to the staff room when you can. You, too, Poppy!” she called into the recesses of the Infirmary.

Harry didn’t bother stopping by his rooms to change out of his Muggle clothes. As the Muggle Immersion teacher, he’d long ago successfully argued his case to Minerva for full-time Muggle-wear, and if he chose to live his life in tees, jeans, and Sirius’s old leather jacket, that was his right. The other professors should’ve picked better subjects to teach.

The walk to the staff room was quiet. Now that his Ravenclaws and Slytherins were home, the castle was drowsy, as it always got in the month before the school year began. As if its alarm had gone off, but Hogwarts kept hitting snooze.

Most of the staff were already there when Harry arrived, all of them with tense expressions he didn’t remember seeing since the War. Absently, he pulled at his earlobe, hoping to alleviate the ringing.

Hogwarts’ staff had more than doubled in number since Harry’s time as a student. Minerva was rather more no-nonsense than Dumbledore, and had added three new classes—Reading, Writing, & Critical Thinking; Mathematics & Non-Magical Science; and the newly restructured Muggle Immersion—to the students’ core curriculum. She made Astronomy an elective and added seven new electives besides, finally bringing Hogwarts up to par with Beauxbatons, Ilvermorny, and the other top magical schools of the world.

The staff weren’t the only ones there. There were three others standing in the background, wearing the notorious robes of on-duty members of the International Confederation of Wizards. Harry felt his eyebrows rise, but said nothing. His ear was still ringing and he really fucking hoped his wouldn’t turn out to be permanent like Minerva’s.

Given Malfoy now being on staff, tinnitus was really the limit.

But if the ICW was here, then Scotland wasn’t the only country to hear and feel that blast, and that greatly set Harry’s nerves on edge. Which was _beyond_ the limit.

“Good, Harry’s here,” Minerva said. She looked down at her gold wristwatch, frowning. “We’re just waiting on Dudley and our ever-late Slytherin contingent.”

Luna, who’d taken over the first through fifth years for Minerva (and every other week with Harry’s child thanks to her marriage to his ex-wife), was leaning back in her chair, staring at the ceiling, but her mouth twitched upwards at the words. She wasn’t entirely Nargles and daisychains. Harry took a good look at her face and saw that, despite the smile, her eyes were farther away than usual.

Something was definitely not right. Now that his hearing had been repaired and the students safely returned to their parents, he could spare a few moments for the feeling of dread that had been settling in his stomach all day. 

“How was it out there?” Dennis Creevey whispered to him. “Worldwide explosions have got to be pretty loud, but the wards here muffled the worst of it. I haven’t heard from my parents yet and I’m a bit worried.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. Suddenly, the reason for the ICW’s presence was made abundantly clear. “Worldwide?”

Dennis’s eyebrows lifted and now Harry could see that even Dennis’s usual beatific smile was forced. Wordlessly, Dennis opened his DADA portfolio and pulled out an evening edition of the _Prophet_ , sliding it over. Harry’s eyes focused on the headline.

**Atlantis resurfaced?**  
_Continent appears in Atlantic Ocean, spurring experts to wonder if lost civilisation has reappeared after 11,600 year absence_

The staffroom door opened again before he could read the rest. Harry shook himself from his stupor as the Slytherins came in as a single unit. A pod, a school, a hive, a pride, a nest—what did you call a group of Slytherins, anyway? A murder, maybe? It was really not a fair thing to wonder about, given how jolly nice a couple of them were (and how enthusiastically anti-decent the others were).

Astoria sat down on Harry’s free side. Their Magical Art & Portrait Painting teacher was one of the nice ones, and she was also Malfoy’s ex-wife, so Harry imagined a world where she was just as annoyed by Malfoy’s appointment as he was. Theodore Nott, the lower years’ Potions teacher, was the other nice one. Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, and Adrian Pucey, though not nice, each had a well-developed sense for schadenfreude and comedic timing, and Harry could appreciate that. He’d been working with them for years now and had cultivated a taste for their particular brand of dry-as-a-martini humour.

Malfoy, on the other hand, would always be a twat. There had to be some constants in life, after all.

As if Summoned by dark magic, Malfoy sat down right across from Harry and proceeded to completely ignore him, as if Malfoy weren’t the newbie. As if he weren’t the only person in this whole castle who had never even taught a class. As if his father weren’t actually doing really menial and embarrassing community service under Arthur Weasley at that very moment. As if Harry could really use a distraction right now and Malfoy was determined not to give him one.

It had been twelve years since they’d really seen each other, save a few bumps in Diagon Alley. Twelve years since the final battle and trials; the terrified expression of Malfoy’s face as he’d climbed a tower of burning furniture and detritus was etched into Harry’s memory. Malfoy didn’t look afraid anymore, but then again, Harry hadn’t really expected that.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, really.

Life had been so unexpected and not-to-plan since the War that nothing really surprised Harry anymore. Not Hermione naming her second child after Hugo Chávez, not the dissolution of his marriage, not even Gin’s subsequent remarriage to Luna. Not the way his son called him ‘Mum Three’ just to annoy him, not his ejection from the Auror Academy, or even his reconciliation with Dudley and the ‘brilliant idea’ that had come from their first chat together in the pub all those years ago.

But the tiny creases around Malfoy’s mouth did kind of surprise him. They looked suspiciously like laugh lines.

So did the pull at the centre of his eyebrows, a constant line of worry that you couldn’t really see until you got this close, sat right across from him at the staff table. Harry didn’t know where Malfoy’d fucked off to for the last seven years, but he did know he’d taken his and Astoria’s son with him for all it. She’d come to Hogwarts only months after their divorce, pregnant, while Malfoy was still globetrotting.

Harry wondered if Scorpius was here, tucked away in a bedroom somewhere, probably bored to death. Scorpius probably had the same sullen expression Malfoy was wearing right this moment. But it would be nice to have another kid around when Al was bunking in his rooms and not in Hogsmeade with Luna and Ginny. There was only so much pretend Quidditch Harry could put up with in a day.

Pansy caught him looking at Malfoy and raised her manicured eyebrows, saying nothing, but managing to get across several pointed remarks with one gesture. Harry scowled and turned back to the front of the room, where Minerva was talking in low voices with the three delegates from the ICW.

Harry felt a final Slytherin presence slip into the frame behind him. Awareness of the burn of Snape’s oil-painted eyes on the back of Harry’s head was earned from years of exposure and Snape having a terrible tendency of showing up at the end of the day, when Harry was already walking around his rooms in just his pants.

Then the door opened one final time, and Harry’s Muggle Immersion co-teacher came in. Dudley was often later than even the Slytherins. He had farther to travel—in a physical sense, if not a quantum one.

Dudley sat down next to Malfoy without hesitation. As Harry would’ve once guessed, the months since Malfoy’s arrival showed he and Dudley got on. Very well. It didn’t even matter that Dudley was a Muggle, because Dudley had apparently told many stories about Harry at the little welcome party the Slytherins had thrown for Malfoy (which Harry had not been invited to), and that was enough for Malfoy.

Still a twat.

“Hey, Harry,” said Dudley. “Were you already at the Festival Fringe when it happened? Mum nearly shat herself.” He frowned, added, “Actually, she really might’ve done. Made the strangest noise when I rang her right after. Oh, and the fireplace in Edinburgh didn’t let me through to Hogwarts right away. Weirdest thing—did something block the magic?”

Harry frowned. “The kids and I had just arrived at the festival when we heard it.”

He ignored the way Malfoy’s eyes finally tracked to his face then. He had no idea how to address the rest of Dudley’s questions.

Dudley nodded. “So what was it?”

He turned to Minerva, as if she must surely have known the answer, being a witch in charge.

“An eighth continent, I’m afraid,” Minerva said.

She levitated a handful of newspapers around the table, but with their staff increases, they were still sharing two or three to a paper. Harry’d seen the headline, but surely it couldn’t be real. He leant in to check Astoria’s paper, but hers showed the same thing as Dennis’s.

His ear was still ringing; otherwise he might’ve wondered if he was hallucinating the whole thing, because surely something this mad could not be real. Was his heart pounding faster? Was he having a panic attack? Merlin, he _would_ be the type to have panic attacks at this stage in his life, wouldn’t he?

If surviving two Killing Curses, weathering a stillbirth, getting divorced, accidentally getting his ex-wife pregnant, and raising the subsequent child to seven hadn’t done it, then a continent would.

“If I may,” Malfoy said in his crisp tones, and they all looked to him for whatever great insight he had—he was the fucking Cultures and Casting or some other posh shit teacher after all—but what he said was, “What the actual fuck is this? It can’t be real.”

“Looks like Atlantis, nitwit,” said Millicent, without raising her eyes. “Land of our forebears and whatnot, all risen from the sea like the Neptune of bad timing.”

“When would you say is good timing for a continent to reappear, Mill?” Malfoy asked, with a minuscule degree of sincerity.

“Not when I’m doing lesson plans, that’s for sure,” she said.

“What are the Muggles reporting?” Theodore Nott—the only sensible one ever—asked.

“And thus we come to the point of this meeting,” said Minerva, returning to her chair and taking a seat. She crossed her hands on the table. Her white knuckles belied her stress. A rare bit of wandless magic from her had a second set of newspapers distributing themselves to the assembled, and that was when Harry, who had heretofore been manfully holding his shit together, felt the blood drain from his face and his sodding left ear start screaming.

The two headlines could’ve been written by the same person. The similarity made his stomach drop straight to the floor. The only difference was this paper was the _Guardian_.

There was a shaky photograph, too-far zoomed in, of an island, with a huge, circular harbour, with concentric rings leading in.

**Is Atlantis real?**  
_Greenland-sized continent appears in Atlantic Ocean, causing deadly tsunamis in Mediterranean; EU, USA, et al. convening emergency global summit_

“Oh my… I know it’s only been three hours, but I rather feel that I preferred Atlantis as a myth,” Molly Weasley said.

Harry noticed that she’d begun to go a bit red. Early menopause for a witch, Hermione had once assured him, but in this case, probably more due to explosions while planning lessons for both Magical Home Economics and the first through third year Charms students, rather than hot flashes.

“Atlantis was never a _myth_ ,” Malfoy said. “Magical scholars have always maintained it was the true origination of our human species, simply lost to natural disaster.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Who the hell cares? It caused a worldwide explosion like some wannabe Krakatoa.”

“What about the Statute?” Astoria whispered. “There’s no way Muggles will think this is normal. Do you think they’ll figure us out? Are there magical people on Atlantis?”

“ _Nous sommes tellement baisés_ ,” Fleur said.

Malfoy, Pucey, Millicent, Professor Flitwick, Luna, and Neville all nodded.

“ _Nous sommes_ ,” Minerva replied, eyes narrowed, “unless we act fast. As you can see by the attendance of our three guests, I’ve already been contacted by the ICW to help assemble a task force to respond to this. Other member nations and our own Ministry will be selecting witches and wizards, as well. As Hogwarts staff, we have some of the best scholars in the nation with us, and I am confident we will help to come up with a solution.”

“I’ll help,” Harry said immediately. “We’re going to try to save the Statute of Secrecy, right? Dudley and I should be on the task force, as Muggle experts.”

“Quite right,” McGonagall said. “I want you both helping. And Professor Malfoy—”

Malfoy jerked back from the table, as if he’d been slapped. His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything, just frowned and nodded. Harry didn’t know what his problem was. Wasn’t Atlantis his thing? Harry reckoned Malfoy should be dancing with excitement, even though he was being sent on a boring task force with possibly the dullest body of magical people in existence (the ICW).

“And with him, we’ll want our Modern Languages and History teaching pairs, along with Professors Vector and Babbling. Professors Croaker and Goldstein, if the two of you could also attend tomorrow’s emergency meeting with the ICW in case any Theory or Mysticism expertise is required.”

“What’s the goal of the task force?” Malfoy asked. “What do we think we can actually _do_ to reverse the damage? If this is truly Atlantis, it’s not like we can just sink it back under the sea again. It’s too valuable a culture, historically and magically...and I hardly think we can erect a Notice-Me-Not that large.”

One of the ICW representatives spoke up for the first time. “Our first course of action will be to make contact with any inhabitants on the island. Simultaneously, we will be doing _whatever is necessary_ to protect the Statute of Secrecy.”

Harry sat back, blinking quickly. That sounded rather forceful. “Well,” he couldn’t help saying.

Dudley gave him a look echoing the sentiment. “Is that even possible with a potential breach this large?”

“We will _make it_ possible,” the wizard said.

Ominous-er and ominous-er, as Ollivander might’ve said. Harry rubbed his temples. He was going to have to Floo Call Ron and Hermione. He dearly hoped they were pulling Hermione off sabbatical for this. Misery did, in fact, love company. And he suspected they were going to need all they could get.

*


	3. Chapter 3

“You think Harry’s into you?” asked Dudley.

Draco gave his best withering glare over his shoulder. “Be serious.”

Dudley shrugged, hands in his denim pockets, as Draco un-warded his door. The portrait of Poseidon—who really thought he’d been a god and not a fictional character given life thanks to portrait magic—guarding Draco’s door kept flicking water at Draco with his trident. It didn’t leave the canvas, but Draco was not amused anyway.

Much like Potter’s pointed looks throughout every sodding meeting, the sodding guard portrait made no secret of wanting him gone. He wouldn’t give either of them the pleasure. He had people on his side: Pansy, Millicent, Theo, Pucey, the Headmistress. Even Potter’s cousin. Draco smiled; making friends with Potter’s Muggle cousin and knowing it annoyed Potter had been a special pleasure for Draco.

That sort of stubbornness was all that was, currently, keeping him from losing his shit in the middle of a Hogwarts corridor. He was, understandably, quite disturbed by the possibility that the Statute of Secrecy could’ve been damaged in such a startling fashion. All thoughts kept returning to Scorpius, tucked up safely in Astoria’s over-decorated suite. What would happen if Muggles found him? Would they hurt him? Experiment on him? Draco couldn’t stomach the thought.

“He stares at you kind of balefully a lot, though,” Dudley continued. “I think that’s one of his tells—to be dour when he’s into someone.”

“Merlin, help me,” Draco muttered.

Potter _would_ be the type to do that. Which was the last thing Draco needed right now: a pigtail-pulling Gryffindor being a prick to him amid an international crisis just because he wanted to get a leg over. Draco finally got the door to behave and it unlocked, wards gushing down like Poseidon’s ocean spray hitting a rocky cliff.

Dudley followed him in, same as he’d done after every staff meeting since Draco had been hired on at the beginning of the summer. “No Scorpius tonight?”

“Astoria has him for the rest of the week, which works out now I have to deal with this…thing.”

Dudley nodded, and then: “But what if he did fancy you? What then?”

“Then my life would be incrementally worse than it was this morning, and again worse than it was this afternoon, when the world quite literally exploded.” Draco glared over his shoulder. “Is Potter even gay? Or bi?”

“Yeah, duh, he’s into all sorts,” said Dudley who then paused to consider Draco’s other comment. “You don’t think he’s fit, though? I mean, _I_ don’t think he’s fit—that’d be fucking grim—but my mate Piers has this weird thing for him. No idea why. Says he’s fit, though. And you’re like Piers, right? I mean, you’re not into women.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “What gave it away? The impeccable grooming, the good posture, or the lad mags?”

“The David Bowie poster in your loo,” Dudley said. “I mean, not that that’s a foolproof thing, but,” he trailed off, shrugging. “I haven’t seen the lad mags. You hide those better than the David Bowie.”

Draco turned to stare at him. “You know wizard musicians, too? Just how long have you Muggles been infiltrating our world? Have I really missed that much since I left Britain? Is today’s utter demolition of the Statute of Secrecy—the only thing keeping Muggles from obliterating all of us with their new-clear weapons—really nothing to talk about because wizards and Muggles have just been _intermingling_ since the War?”

Draco neatly ignored the fact he’d lived in predominantly Muggle areas for the past seven years.

Dudley sat on the chair by the fire, and looked up at him with the same sort of annoyed expression Daphne used to give Draco when she was about to start washing her hands thirty times or list out an array of stock prices around the world from an edition of the _Daily Prophet_ that came out three months ago.

“Mate, David Bowie’s a Muggle singer. My mum listened to him when my dad wasn’t around.”

Draco was not surprised by this blatant treachery by one of their own going out to make an extra Galleon by pandering to Muggles, but he was exhausted by it. It was a wonder the Statute hadn’t been broken a thousand times over by now as it was. Since the War, Draco had seen more and more magical people pushing the limits of Muggle suspension of belief. It was like wizards didn’t even bother hiding anymore, expecting Muggles to just explain their oddities away because wizards were too lazy to hide anymore. It was unsettling.

But not nearly as unsettling as Atlantis literally resurfacing from beneath the sea, and—yes, there it was. It was sinking in now.

His entire world was about to be, or already had been, exposed to Muggles worldwide. It didn’t matter what lazy wizards did or didn’t do when they ventured out into Muggle London. Because now there was a whole new island that Draco was quite certain Muggle science would have no explanation for.

Muggles were probably talking about it on the Internet right at that moment. The worst part was having literally no idea what they were thinking, barely even knowing how to use the stupid Internet beyond accessing Narcissa’s website so he could find out. They could be plotting against magical people right now, and witches and wizards were none the wiser. He really should’ve made an effort to learn the Internet better.

“Mick Jagger’s popular with Muggles, too,” Dudley added, as an afterthought, and Draco despaired for yet another wizard of good stock debasing himself.

It was just Draco’s luck that after narrowly escaping prison, and both his parents somehow also escaping prison, his life would turn around so spectacularly—seven years of travel with his son, studying everything he could find on the only subject that had ever held his interest for more than a month, landing a job that was practically made for him and getting to prove all those bitter do-gooders wrong—only for someone to decide it was a great time for Atlantis to resurface in one stupid explosion. And apparently half of all magical people now preferred Muggles over their own culture, too.

Draco found himself agreeing with Molly Weasley in that moment; he rather wished his favourite ancient culture had stayed ancient.

He wondered what his mother was thinking—probably quietly losing her shit, just as Draco currently was; they were rather alike, after all.

And to make matters worse (they could always be worse for Draco), Potter had been hired on eleven years prior and somehow Draco had not realised this when signing his employment contract. It had been a shock at breakfast that first day and Draco was still recovering from it. Even more so now that Astoria had taken to setting up playdates with Potter’s spawn.

Plus there was his weird Muggle cousin—somehow a teacher at Hogwarts, too. His weird Muggle cousin who Draco, oddly, liked.

They were all going to burn at the stake. Not everyone could cast a wandless freezing charm, after all. Especially under duress. That was something the Muggle-loving Ministry liked to whitewash in government-approved history textbooks.

“Harry’s kind of a twat, though, isn’t he? Just to get back on subject,” Dudley said, touring Draco’s rooms and picking up the new dragon-shaped Floo powder dish his mother had sent him that week. A creation from her new soap-carving hobby. “I mean, I know I’m a twat, too, but Harry’s like…a special kind of twat, you know?”

That was why Draco liked Potter’s cousin.

“He’s absolutely a twat, yes.” Of this, they could agree.

“As are you,” Dudley continued, in a knowing way that Draco really didn’t care for.

Draco dropped his satchel onto the sofa. He really could do with a bath and a chat with his mum, or maybe a cry. Because if you can’t cry when the entire magical world is exposed to Muggles, when can you? His only hope was that they had no idea it was magic. There was still a small possibility this could all blow over. As long as the ICW didn’t make it _worse_.

“Plus, you’re both single dads, sons the same age. Luna says Scorpius and Albus are making friends, you know. Weird names all around—I don’t even bother telling my mum what Harry named his—but to each his own, and all that.”

Draco grimaced. “And?”

Dudley shrugged. “I dunno. I just like seeing people happy…or at least as happy as they can be. You and Harry are so broody, though.” He scrunched his nose, obviously thinking hard. “Yeah, I dunno if either of you could ever really stop being so dour, but you’d suit, I bet.”

“Am I really having this conversation?” Draco asked the newly arrived painting above his hearth.

Severus rolled his eyes from his position in a pasture full of Kerry Hill sheep. “You seek out melodrama.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I just got hired three months ago and found out I have to share a staffroom with Potter, after five years in house arrest. With my mother. And my father, when he wasn’t out doing embarrassing community service. And then seven more years when I couldn’t even step into my own country without seeing my reputation slashed in every single newspaper. I think I’ve earned some melodrama!”

“Spare me,” Severus said. “You were building up reserves well before the War.”

“Hey, Professor Snape,” said Dudley. “You been by Harry’s room yet?”

“He is also sulking,” Severus said.

Draco groaned, rolling his eyes. Would anyone allow him any dignity?

“You coming with us to the ICW meeting?” Dudley continued.

“Yes, Potter’s already packed my travel frame.”

“I can’t believe you’re friends with him,” Draco said, maybe a little melodramatically.

Severus merely shrugged. “Death is boring.”

“Nothing like the exposure of our entire world to brighten up one’s afterlife,” said Draco, glaring. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Now that it won’t affect you.”

Severus was unimpressed. “Once one has lived through a decade of Dumbledore and the Dark Lord’s service, very little terrifies.”

“Dudley, why are you still here?” Draco asked.

“Can I use your Floo, mate? I’d walk home, but my mum’s scared to shit of Atlantis, so I should probably go spend the night at hers to make sure she doesn’t lose it.”

Draco waved towards the fireplace. “Fine.”

“Cheers!” said Dudley. He grabbed some Floo powder, tossed it in the fire, and stepped in gingerly. “Mrs Vernon Dursley’s Residence!”

When his suite was empty again, Draco fell back onto the sofa, letting out a long sigh. A throat clearing above the fireplace reminded him that he was, in fact, still on display. Draco rolled his head in the direction of the portrait, eyes narrowed.

“Yes?”

“This is not an ideal situation.”

“No kidding?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

Snape gave him a withering look, settled into the empty chair and desk amid the sheep Draco had commissioned for him to visit in. He tapped his painted fingers along the desktop, seemingly warring with himself over what he was about to say.

“Just say it, Uncle Sev,” Draco sighed.

“Did you ever find anything, during your studies, to suggest Atlantis had not, in fact, been submerged by a great flood?”

Draco frowned. “Not really, no. The reports of its destruction were always similar enough: lots of water, tsunamis perhaps from an earthquake or volcanic eruption, and then it disappeared in the space of a day.”

“If,” said Severus, “Atlantis was destroyed by a great flood, then where, pray tell, did all the water come from?”

“The last ice age ended 11,700 years ago,” said Draco. “Very close to when Atlantis disappeared.”

Severus nodded, absorbing this new info. “A hundred years difference. And then a sudden flood. What held the water back for those one-hundred years and then suddenly released it over Atlantis?”

Draco didn’t have an answer for that. 

“What did you discover of the Atlanteans’ magic system? Was it similar to that of the Greeks who came after?”

“Not at all,” Draco said. “They were one of only three advanced civilisations in existence at the time—the Mayans, the Celtics, and the Atlanteans. The Greeks didn’t develop control over magic for another three thousand years. And Atlantis had a much closer relationship with the foundations of the Universe than later civilisations did. Or do. Their magic was more elemental, and they had a connection to Time Magic that no civilisation has yet to rediscover.”

Severus perked up, as much as he ever did. “Interesting.”

Draco agreed—obviously. Visiting Atlantis had been his childhood fantasy, and he’d spent the last twelve years of his life researching it—and all the years before that being childishly obsessed with it. But he was tired, and frankly overwhelmed by the day’s events. He’d been at the castle all day, and he still had a headache from the blast. A blast that had reverberated even through Hogwarts’s wards. There was no telling what it had sounded like further south in Wiltshire.

Which reminded him: he needed to Floo his parents.

Severus was silent for a few moments, only slow, black blinks to show he was still conscious at all. Finally, he said, “Have you looked up recently?”

“Looked up?” Draco frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Severus deliberated, and then elected to say nothing of value. “It is very odd that they chose now to reappear.”

“You think this was on purpose, then?” Draco asked. “And not some screwed up continent-wide time traveling?”

“I don’t know,” said Severus. “But I’d very much like to listen in at the meeting tomorrow. Will you remind Potter to take my portrait out? He often forgets.”

Draco nodded. “Sure, Uncle Sev.”

He peeled himself off the couch, disrobing as he went. “I’m going to bed,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got a full day and an international Portkey with Potter to look forward to. I need to call my parents, have a wank, and somehow attain eight hours of sleep in the meantime.”

He didn’t bother to listen for Severus’s response, but the muffled chastisement beyond his bedroom door said all that needed to be said. Draco sighed as the door shut behind him, feeling some of the day’s annoyances and stressors get locked beyond it. Broadcasting his wank schedule wasn’t something he normally did to anyone, much less his dead godfather, but Draco was so exhausted he was beyond caring.

The idea of spending a day in some sterile office building in Brussels, just so he could listen to idiots from across the world talk endlessly about their stupid ideas, was enough to ruin any day, if the blast hadn’t already done it. Still, he had to check on his parents. He tossed his outer robe onto the chair for the house-elves and sat on the low stool by his hearth. Taking a steadying breath, Draco tossed some powder in and called for his parents’ sitting room Floo.

His father answered, mid evening ritual, one hand still braiding back his long hair for bed.

“Draco,” said Lucius. He looked tired, as he always did lately. But he was alive, and not in Azkaban, and that was more than enough for Draco. “I wasn’t expecting a call from you tonight.”

_“Is that Draco?”_

Lucius turned to the side. “Yes, love.”

As if it would be anyone else. Only family had access to the private Floos.

Narcissa came into the frame, her own hair already braided down her back, a blue silk dressing gown open over her nightgown. She knelt on the Floo pillows before the hearth and smiled at him. “Darling, you look a fright.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You both, as well.” He cut right to it: “How loud was it there?”

Lucius grimaced, tied off his hair, and knelt on the pillow next to Narcissa. “We had to call Healer Farrow in to fix our hearing. Your mother had a ringing.”

Narcissa frowned but waved it off. “It’s gone now. I don’t know what dark magic Healer Farrow used, but I think I hear better now than before.”

Draco laughed. “Good.”

“It was—incredibly loud,” said his father. “A contact at the Ministry tells me it was heard all the way to Romania; deaths in Portugal and Morocco.”

“I heard it behind Hogwarts’ wards,” Draco admitted. “Was it a disaster there today?”

“It is always a disaster at the Ministry,” said Lucius. “I doubt something as small as a worldwide catastrophe could make it worse.”

“Darling, how are _you_? How is Scorpius? Astoria?” Narcissa cut in, rolling her eyes at his father. “Were any of you hurt? Did you have your hearing seen to?”

“Mr Lao looked us all over,” Draco admitted. “His tests say everything’s fine.”

“Good,” said Mother, smiling.

“This is rather a fortuitous disaster for you, all things considered,” Lucius added after a moment. He tilted his head, inquiring.

Draco couldn’t help the childish glee that erupted on his face then. “I do feel as though I’ve been locked inside Honeydukes after hours,” he admitted. Ignoring the threat to the Statute, of course.

Narcissa laughed. “Perhaps Epona is smiling down on our family once more.”

“Perhaps,” Lucius agreed. His eyes tracked Draco’s face, searching for something. “If she is, it’s all Draco’s doing. He has always been our saving grace.”

Draco looked away, feeling his chest constrict oddly.

He was reminded, once more, how his mother hadn’t been able to leave the Manor grounds for over a decade, that his father was still serving a community service sentence chosen specifically for how it would humiliate him, how Draco himself had been all but exiled from his own country after serving his own house-arrest sentence. Britain did not want the Malfoys to have a saving grace; if they got one, it would come from the gods themselves.

“Have you been keeping yourselves busy?” Draco asked, to change the subject.

Lucius murmured something about getting out his collection of cameras and photo journalling his time at the Ministry, and Draco’s mother talked of her walks around the grounds, visiting their tenant farmers, the endless upkeep required for the Westbury White Horse, and her recent litter of pedigree Fancy Colour Dalmatians.

He’d worried about them, as he always did. But they were stronger than he was, as strong as he’d hopefully one day become, and they always survived. With their dignity intact, despite what the Ministry forced on them. Draco ended the call with a promise to come to brunch that weekend, as he, Scorpius, and Astoria had every weekend since his return to Britain, and cancelled the connection.

Draco stripped the rest of his clothes off and tossed them on top of his robes on the chair. His floor was cozy-warm from well-cast Warming Charms, and he let out a relieved sigh as he padded across his bedroom to the bathroom. The house-elves had taken a survey of his preferences upon his hire, and the shower taps were already installed with the scents and water pressure he liked, which was a great luxury, even for him. The Manor’s plumbing was old and he had to set it every time he took a bath at home.

But here, he just stepped into water the perfect temperature, pressure, and smell, and couldn’t help the little flush of contentment it sent through him. Draco hardly knew what to do with himself without a seven-year-old running around. Scorpius had been—predominantly—his domain for so long he felt a little adrift without him singing to himself in the next room. He wondered if this was how Astoria had always felt when they’d been in Greece and she’d been here.

Annoyed, Draco shook that off. He had a rare evening alone, and tomorrow was going to be a clusterfuck, and there was no sense in being maudlin over something so ridiculous as where Scorpius spent the night.

He soaped up, physically washing the grimy nonsense of the day from his body, his mind thinking of anything but potential breaches of the Statute.

He was lucky he’d been behind the wards today. Those Ravenclaws and Slytherins had looked absolutely spell-shocked coming back from their Muggle Immersion trip.

And Potter hadn’t looked much better. Draco hadn’t seen that terrified-Gryffindor look in his eyes since the War, not that he’d seen much of Potter at all since the War. A testimony at his trial, a few run-ins in Diagon after Draco’s house-arrest was up, then only articles in the paper afterwards, when he returned to England for holidays. And even those had become more and more rare as the years went on, until Draco had almost forgotten the shape of Potter’s jawbone, or the slant of his dark-lashed eyes.

Draco grimaced. Not this shit again. He was entirely too old for it and he hated the thought of making Dudley right.

And what did it say about him and the type of person he was that he got aroused by how offensive he found Potter’s personality? Draco supposed the tanned skin didn’t hurt—skin that had only darkened with age and access to sunlight. Or the jawbone, which, Draco could admit, was just as sharp and wide as it’d been in sixth year.

Draco deeply regretted his train of thought, as he now had the beginnings of an erection, which was exactly what he’d planned for the evening—he had warned Severus, after all—but he hadn’t planned on its being caused by thoughts of Potter. He refused to wank to Potter’s memory again. He’d absolutely outgrown getting turned on by thoughts of Potter in Quidditch changing rooms, or Potter bent over the handle of his broom, or Potter’s gait as he walked to Hogsmeade, or Potter’s forearm flexing as he brandished his wand—

Or the stark look on his face, returning from the school trip with his students. The way his whole body had been tense, strung tight, as he waited for each of them to be seen to. The way he’d spoken to Pansy as a colleague, an equal, when she’d come to check on her students. How his fingers had gripped so tightly to his wand it was a wonder it didn’t sink right into his skin.

By the time Draco realised he was currently wanking, he’d already given up on the pretence of his having any control over where his mind drifted. But he refused to think of Potter.

Naturally, this made him think of Potter.

Of his stupid hair and his stupid eyes and his stupid glasses, which were actually rather flattering and stylish these days. And then of course there was his stupid complexion, so different from Draco’s own, and his stupid back and stupid shoulders and his stupid, stupid, stupid way of petting his son’s head at meals, which made Draco think he was actually probably a decent father. But he wasn’t thinking about Potter, Draco reminded himself as his hand slid down his shaft, fingers gripping just tight enough, the slick from his conditioner sliding just enough. He was thinking of other men.

Men with firm backs, Draco decided as he gave his prick a delicious twist. His thighs tingled and he leant back against the tile, his mouth falling open, the shower spray hitting his closed eyes.

Men with well-developed _gluteus maximus_ muscles, Draco decided, as he reached another hand down to take hold of his balls, roll them gently in his palm.

Men with calloused fingers trailing over Draco’s body, hot skin pressing against his own. Draco moaned, his left hand moving Snitch-fast over his shaft as his other reached further back and toyed with his opening. He was so keyed up, so energised he felt he’d explode with magic if he didn’t come soon.

One finger pressed in, and Draco angled his hips, trying to give himself a better angle. He pressed, circled, moaned deeply when he found it. His thighs were trembling with the effort to hold himself up while his body screamed at him to sit down, there was too much pleasure to focus on and stand up, too. His head lolled to the side, his finger working in and out of his hole, dragging along that explosively pleasurable spot inside himself while his hand worked his cock.

Men with happy laughs and strong spells, who understood family always came first and would never let Draco down. Draco felt himself sliding down, his skin dragging slick and wet down the tile. It was too much, too much sensation to experience; his thighs were giving out. His arse touched the tile of the shower and he curled further, the new angle allowing him to press two fingers into that perfect spot and his vision sparked with the pleasure of it. He bit his lip, his breath coming out in fast, little moans, as if in sync with his strokes.

He wanted a man so badly right now. One who’d fuck his slick hole open, make him feel like such a dirty slag, his cock dripping over the bedsheets as someone pounded into him from behind. Someone with dark hair, and dark skin, and striking eyes that grabbed you and wouldn’t let you go, no matter how hard you tried to look away first.

 _Fuck_ , he was thinking of Potter.

His chest rose and fell so hard he thought his heart would beat right out of it, but he was climbing, climbing, so fucking close, and it was already so much better, more intense, than anything Draco had felt in years. He bit down on his lip, allowing it all to come into focus. There was Potter, his green eyes heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide as he looked up, watched Draco wank himself raw as he fucked himself on Potters thick, flushed cock, his hands guiding Draco’s hips up and down their erratic movement.

He pressed hard, twisted his hand at the tip of his cock. Merlin, he was so close. He fucked his fingers in and out of his slick hole, paying no attention to how tired his forearm was, barely even noticing it. His cock was dribbling, so, so close.

The shower angle changed abruptly, sensing his needs, and the spray hit his cock, the vibration of the water made his eyes roll back, and he keened with need and pleasure, and then, yes— _fuck_ —he was coming. His arse contracting around his fingers and his cock pulsing all over his belly.

Draco panted, his body boneless against the tiles. The shower spray obligingly returned to its normal direction and water pressure in deference to his over-sensitive prick. Bloody Hogwarts and its bloody sentient plumbing.

Draco cracked an eye open and glanced down at the mess on his body, which would only become slicker and more annoying once it made contact with water. Ejaculate was such an annoying substance. His mind took that moment to helpfully remind him of what he’d just wanked to, and how he wouldn’t be adverse at all to Potter’s ejaculate. Draco grimaced, wholly disappointed in himself, but self-aware enough not to be surprised.

He’d just thought he was over this Potter attraction hippogriff shit. He was exasperated to find he was not.

*


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was up with the sun, as usual, but he was feeling considerably less rested than he normally did. The ICW was meeting in Brussels, and he had an international Portkey to look forward to, which was never a good way to start a day. Especially when he was sharing it with Malfoy, pre-coffee.

The professors heading to the meeting gathered in the staff room for their departure, but Harry was the first one in. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe the house-elves kept in there and sat at the table, nursing it lovingly. Goldstein came in next without a word—he never spoke before two cups of tea and a large coffee with extra cream, Harry knew from experience, so he just gave him a nod and went back to his own cup of delicious life-giving nectar.

A few plates of scones and butter popped up shortly after and Harry helped himself to a cranberry-orange zest one. After another thought, he helped himself to two more. Professors Vector and Babbling came in then, already chatting merrily, and it began to feel like a normal day again.

But it wasn’t really normal, was it? Somewhere in the Atlantic, there was a huge fucking island that Muggles would not be able to pretend had always been there.

Harry picked his way through Dennis’s copy of the _Guardian_. He wouldn’t be awake to read it for an hour anyway. But the more Harry read, the more he wanted to go back to bed, too.

It was still kind of hard to process.

The Muggles were shocked, of course. They were asking questions, of course.

None of them seemed to have any serious answers for those questions, but theories were put forward: tectonic plates shifting, weather balloons, global anomalies, aliens, and faulty satellites sending incorrect data since, apparently, 1958—not to mention poor cartography and ignoring shipping routes that had once passed through what was now land.

It was only a matter of time—how long, Harry didn’t know—before they hit on the right answer. Magic was the simplest answer, right? Occam’s Razor.

It didn’t help that not even magical people knew what was going on.

Harry couldn’t help a feeling of foreboding at that. _Why_ would another species of magical people hide themselves from the rest of the world for so long?

He really hoped Malfoy and his fancy expertise in ancient cultures could shed some fucking light today.

Just then, Professor Croaker, their resident celebrity, slunk in. Having been an Unspeakable for three-quarters of a century, his talent for remaining unnoticed was here to stay. The students all thought he was dead cool for that, and Harry could count on one hand the students who’d not chosen to take Croaker’s Theory of Magic & Spell Creation class. He was an all-around nice chap, though, and gave Harry a smile and a wave as he glided by on soundless feet, just like a happy Dementor.

Harry was pouring his second cup of brewed life when their final travelling companion strode in. Malfoy was impeccably dressed in a set of European-style robes: black shirt, fitted black wool trousers, and an indigo jacquard short-robe reminiscent of a military frock coat. Harry preferred that style himself when he was forced into robes (which was rare), as it allowed for more movement at the legs and arms, but he’d not seen Malfoy in full robes since his arrival. And now he felt a bit annoyed that someone like Malfoy could find it in himself to move beyond standard British conservatism enough to wear modern robes.

Malfoy caught him looking and raised an eyebrow the same way Pansy did when Harry was coming to her about something vulgar one of her first years had done in his class.

“Good morning, Potter,” Malfoy said, rather ungraciously if Harry were asked.

Harry gamely gave him a tight smile. “Exciting day ahead of us. Those are nice robes.”

Let it never be said (by Minerva) that Harry wasn’t at least _making an effort_ …even if it might’ve been a pointedly petty one.

Malfoy looked surprised for the briefest of moments, then it cleared from his face and he reached across the table to pour himself a cup of coffee and take a scone—he chose a chocolate pistachio one, which was very unconventional, Harry couldn’t help noticing.

“Thank you,” said Malfoy, stiff as a Body Bind. “I find this style allows for much freer movement, and I adapted to it during my travels.”

Harry suddenly felt ridiculous. What world were they living in when he and Malfoy were the only two wearing modern robes on the Hogwarts staff, and for the same reasons?

Malfoy seemed to notice his as well then, and it might’ve been Harry’s imagination, but he would’ve sworn Malfoy’s lips twitched upwards.

“Yours are nice, as well.”

Harry’s were a bit more utilitarian than Malfoy’s. When he was forced out of Sirius’s old jacket, Harry kept to a frock-coat with a more muted pattern, all in emerald and teal, rather than one of those with all the gold embroidery. He was comfortable in them, and in a pinch, they passed more easily for Muggle clothes than traditional robes did. A quick Colour-Changing Charm on the robe to make it all black could turn it from Victorian to stylish peacoat in a snap. And while dragon-hide boots looked nothing like non-magical mammal leather, it could pass for snakeskin, if one was willing to look like a jazz singer.

Harry’s wand, and the wands of every other person in the room, started vibrating and chirping simultaneously. Their Portkey was nearly ready to depart. Harry drained the last of his coffee, swallowed down his third scone, and stood to make his way over to the coat rack the ICW had supplied for their group travel.

Harry took hold of one of the coat rack’s branches, just as Malfoy was reaching for the same one. Their fingers brushed for a moment, and then, like normal people, they sorted themselves out without a word. Nothing awkward about it at all. He caught Dudley giving him a smirk across the coat rack and scowled at him, discomfited.

And why was Harry suddenly covered in chills?

He glanced at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye, noticed for the first time in years how straight and sharp Malfoy’s nose was, how pert his mouth was, how his eyelashes and eyebrows were strikingly dark, despite the white-blond of his hair.

_Ah, fuck,_ Harry thought, as the Portkey activated. He was about to obsess over Malfoy again, wasn’t he?

*

Brussels was warmer than Scotland had been, not that Draco was going to get to experience any of that lovely sunshine today. He was trapped inside this room with forty or fifty other wizards and witches until they came up with A Plan.

And outside, through the walls of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Ixelles Ponds, Muggles with much nicer lives than Draco’s were strolling along to work, doing their best to be unbothered by Atlantis.

Draco turned abruptly away from the window, suddenly and desperately wishing he were still out there, a free wizard. The only time he’d ever been truly free in his life. _Why_ had he wanted to come back and teach at Hogwarts, again?

He was finding it hard to remember.

In his head, Pansy’s voice came to him: _‘Draco, I’m getting really tired of your shit. Scorpius needs a fucking stable lifestyle during his formative years or he’ll never learn to socialise properly and he’ll be an annoying, offensive recluse like your grandfather was.’_

Ah, yes.

His son, who he was seeing less and less now that they he, Draco, and Astoria were all living in the castle. Scorpius had rarely seen his mother during their travels, and he was making up for it by staying with her every night, with no sign of returning to his room in Draco’s suite more than once every other night. Given how frustrated Draco’d been while creating his lesson plans, he supposed he couldn’t blame Scorpius.

“Everyone, your attention please. I’d like to call this meeting to order.”

Draco grimaced, turned from the window and the city view he wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy, and took his place at the long table. As his endless luck would have it, the placard reading ‘Mr Draco L Malfoy’ was sitting right next to the one reading ‘Mr Harry J Potter’.

Exactly the person he wanted to sit next to after wanking over the night before.

Draco slid into his seat and folded his hands on the table before him. A moment later, Potter practically fell into his own seat, giving Draco a tight smile as he did.

The man at the head of the table, still standing and looking unfortunately overrun by his own ICW-issue robes, gave them an overdone smile.

“Welcome, welcome. Thank you all for joining us today. I am Herbert Kurzschluss, Supreme Mugwump for Germany,” he said, his accent coming through the more he spoke. “And also President of the ICW, your host today!”

“I’m so fucking thrilled,” Potter muttered under his breath, and Draco nearly choked on nothing.

Across the table, a representative witch from the British Ministry gave them both a dirty look. Potter affected extreme interest in Mr Kurzschluss’s continued warbling.

Kurzschluss initiated an introductory roundtable—a waste of a good hour and a half as they listened to self-important person after self-important person stand and recount their name, history, and assorted accolades (whether real or embellished). When it came to Potter’s turn, he stood, said:

“Harry Potter, one of two Muggle Immersion Professors at Hogwarts in Scotland,” and sat right back down.

Which Draco found refreshing.

Draco gave a slightly longer introduction for himself, only because his class’s name was longer. On Draco’s other side, Dudley, he-of-brass-balls, introduced himself as a _Muggle_ , and the other Muggle Immersion professor. Gryffindor recklessness obviously ran in the Evans family, Draco surmised.

This, understandably, caused a stir amongst those assembled. Dudley smiled blandly, directing his gaze to no one in particular, and generally looked as if he could punch any one of them and knock them out cold without even standing from the table. The murmuring died down after an extended, wasted minute. Draco studied his nails.

It was not as if he wasn’t interested in keeping the Statute of Secrecy in place—he absolutely was. It was just that he knew the power of the ICW. They had, after all, been entreated upon for aid with the Dark Lord’s first and second wars. But they’d done nothing to help then. If they had helped the first time, maybe Draco’s father wouldn’t have been stupid enough to enlist again.

Though, it wasn’t as if anyone with the Mark just said, ‘No thanks, m’Lord, it’s just not for me.’ Draco knew that well enough. But he also knew his father was a gambling man, and had bet on the wrong Abraxan that go ‘round.

Draco remained uninterested throughout. He listened with half an ear while devoting the rest of his attention to the people around the table. He picked out many he knew—many his father had known, in another time—idly cataloguing their strengths and weaknesses in his head. 

“…Which brings us to the task before us,” Kurzschluss said gravely. He didn’t do ‘grave’ well at all. “I’ll open the floor to suggestions on how we can solve this problem. Let’s ideate some solutions while I whiteboard them.”

There was a flurry of startled movement as others in the room realised they could talk.

“We could time travel before it happened and ward the whole area with a huge Notice-Me-Not before Atlantis shows up.”

“What about the tsunami, though?” asked another, through a Translation Charm. “That will happen regardless.”

“And whoever went back in time would have to watch out for their doppelgänger for the rest of their lives,” another added. “What a pain.”

“We could wait and see what happens,” suggested Dudley. “So far, most Muggles just think it’s a tectonic plate shift.”

“A _what_?” a wizard down the table said, snidely. “Surely, it’s a conflict of interest to have a Muggle on this task force making suggestions!”

“Mr Dursley is a Professor at Hogwarts and you will treat him with respect, Mr Leotard,” Potter sneered.

Draco forced himself to remain calm. The man’s placard had read ‘Leopold’. Further, he’d introduced himself as Leopold Leopold III, at length, not even an hour ago. Perhaps Potter should go back to his old spectacles and have a hearing test to boot. Or perhaps he was being a dick on purpose, which Draco wholeheartedly approved of.

“I meant no disrespect, Mr Potter,” Mr Leopold stammered.

Potter didn’t even deign to look at him. Draco’s estimation rose further still.

“I do agree with Mr Dursley’s assessment of the situation,” Granger spoke up. She’d had her hair straightened today and it hung in a sleek fall around her face, accentuating her high cheekbones. “My parents are Muggles with public-facing careers that allow them to do a lot of small talk with their clients. They’ve told me that while almost everyone was talking about it yesterday, no one, so far, suspects anything more than natural phenomena.”

“Do the Muggles not have government authorities already in place surveilling the island?” asked one reasonable witch. “It’s a matter of time before they see it’s inhabited.”

“They do,” Granger agreed, “But Muggle governments don’t share everything they learn about foreign nations with civilians. In fact, Ms Thatchery,” she said, turning to the woman who’d given Draco and Potter a dirty look, “Doesn’t the Ministry already have our Muggle Liaison Officers working with MI5, MI6, and the Royal Navy?”

Ms Thatchery pursed her lips. “We do.”

Granger nodded, as though this were the end of it. “British Liaison Officers will have this sorted with our own government by the end of the day, I’m sure. They won’t be alerting the media. I don’t believe this is yet a breach of the Statute. We must simply ensure that going forward, the island is properly warded, that Muggle flight paths don’t—“

“This is outrageous!” said a man with a heavy accent. “First we hear from an actual Muggle. This woman is nearly Muggle herself! And they are telling us not to overreact like—”

“Excuse me, Mr Sokolov,” Granger grit out, and Draco was surprised to see a handful of small red sparks burst from the tips of her hair. Weasley’s temper was rubbing off. “Your lack of home training is showing, and I was speaking.”

Potter snorted.

Sokolov shut up. But others didn’t. The room was suddenly filled with a cacophony of raised voices, over a hundred people shouting over each other.

Dudley pulled out a bag of jerky and started eating.

Next to Draco, Potter rubbed his face with both hands as if he could wipe off all his sensory organs and not have to live through this shitshow any longer if he did it hard enough.

It didn’t work, as when Potter dropped his hands and looked at Draco, he could obviously see him. “Which hell am I in right now? Do you know? Did you study it in Greece?”

Draco considered. “Does it feel as if you have been repeating the same arduous task every day and the torment will never end, or is it more like you did a terrible deed to a woman and now a vulture is feeding on your liver every day while every night it grows back?”

Potter smiled. “Both.”

Draco nodded, still bored. “Then you’re in what I like to call daily life.”

“Pardon me, friends!” Mr Kurzschluss called. “If we could return back to the matter at hand. I’m afraid we don’t want to boil the ocean. Let’s take a deep dive and look at the impact, our core competency, and think outside the box so we can unpack this dilemma and move the needle. Is there any low-hanging fruit we can go after?”

There was another stunned silence. Dudley was slowly shaking his head.

Someone raised a hand.

“Yes? The representative from MACUSA,” said Kurzschluss, looking relieved to have anyone following a structured communication system.

“During Grindelwald’s rise to power, the city of New York was required to perform a city-wide _Obliviate_ on Muggle residents,” said the wizard. “Perhaps it could be modified for global application.”

“It worked?” asked another witch.

“Very well,” said the New York wizard.

“A spell with such far-reaching effects could be very dangerous,” Granger said. “We can’t possibly subject nearly seven-billion Muggles to an untested spell.”

“A spell that large would doubtless require sacrificial magic,” Draco added.

“Horseshit,” said the New Yorker. “Worked fine for us in the MUS.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Have none of you learned from history? Ancient magical cultures knew this. How do you think the Mayans made their calendar, or the Vikings sailed to the Americas? All magic with far-reaching effects requires a sacrifice. Often a human one.”

“That sounds like Dark Magic to me,” said the Ministry witch, Thatchery. She was glaring pointedly at Draco’s left arm, which was very tidily covered by his slim-fit robe sleeves.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I’ve spent the last twelve years studying ancient magics from an array of cultures, and I can say with confidence that no culture on earth has ever attempted such a magical feat without offering magic a _significant_ sacrifice.”

“What pagan nonsense,” said the American. “The Good Lord didn’t intend for human sacrifice, but he did intend for people to defend themselves. I think an _Obliviate_ is a good way of doing that.”

“Has the ICW made contact with the inhabitants of Atlantis, yet?” Granger spoke up, her voice carrying above everyone else’s. Draco suspected a spell.

Kurzschluss smiled tremulously. “We’ve sent a few owls, but they keep getting returned.”

Granger didn’t look impressed. “Have you sent a representative? It’s been over twenty-four hours now. Surely we’ve made contact with the inhabitants? I guarantee Muggle militaries have.”

“Not as yet,” Kurzschluss admitted.

Granger rolled her eyes. “Then don’t you think we should do that before attempting dangerous spells with unknown results? If Atlantis has been hidden for thousands of years, then magic made that happen. I think it likely they know what magic did it, and how to reproduce it to hide themselves again.”

“Excellent idea,” Kurzschluss said. “We’ll send a small contingent representing the interests of the magical world to Atlantis to meet with their government. Hopefully they have one.”

It took another five hours for the ICW to decide who was going to be part of this small contingent, and it ended up being nearly forty people. Of course Draco had been ‘voluntold’ to join, and he had Granger to thank for it. She’d given him a firm look as she recited all his qualifications for a trip to Atlantis.

Draco would not lie to himself: Seeing Atlantis—real Atlantis—after spending so much time reading about it, was enough to get him half-hard. But taking a Portkey to unconfirmed coordinates, to be met by unknown people, who may or may not be hostile, with thirty-nine other ICW reps, was not.

He wanted to go, but he didn’t want to be on the maiden voyage.

But, he was in his daily life hell, and they set sail tomorrow morning, not one person giving a single fuck of all the lesson plans Draco still had left to write.

*

Their small party was joined by a number of wizards and witches from the International Confederation of Wizards at their popover in Brussels. It was only Dudley’s second time taking an intercontinental Portkey, and he was, annoyingly, faring better than Harry. Who was seriously regretting having kippers for breakfast.

“Wow, second time out of Britain in my life, and it’s still cool,” Dudley said, peering out the window of the International Portkey Arrivals waiting room as they waited for their connection. “Mum would love to travel here. Looks way better than Brussels sprouts would have you believe.”

“Since when are you anti-veg, Dudley?” Ginny, who was joining them as the official Ministry correspondent for the _Prophet_ , asked. Which meant Albus was certainly being used as part of Luna’s Transfigurations lesson planning back at Hogwarts.

“Nah, just been doing Keto for a few years now, and there’s loads of carbs in Brussels sprouts.”

Harry tuned them out once they started getting into the finer points of macronutrients, as he did not care. He was feeling a little queasy from the Portkey and they still had two stops to go before they landed in Atlantis. He was usually fine on Portkeys; what was wrong with him today?

A throat cleared behind him. Harry jumped, barely. And then pretended like he hadn’t.

“Severus said to let him out,” said Malfoy. There was a muffled yell from Harry’s satchel.

“Oh, right.”

He pulled Snape’s portrait from his bag and stuck it to the front of his robes with a quick charm. Appeased, Snape quit whinging, although Harry was nearly certain he would be only slightly happier with the view of Malfoy’s torso he currently had.

Malfoy, who was not walking away. Harry turned his face a bit, looking at Malfoy from one suspicious eye. Malfoy looked remarkably…un-surly.

“Yes?”

Malfoy shrugged, turned to face the window, smiling fakely at the world at large. “Lovely day to be the first non-Atlanteans to set foot on Atlantis in twelve thousand years, don’t you think?”

He turned back to Harry, still wearing his faux-good humour. “Personally, this is all but one of my childhood fantasies coming right to life. Atlantis!” he said again, expressively. “I can barely believe my luck.”

Harry was definitely suspicious by this point. “The fuck is wrong with you, Malfoy? Why are you telling me this?”

Malfoy’s face took on a look of obviously false confusion. “What? Were we having a tiff?”

“Weren’t we?” Harry asked. “Like, a lifelong one?”

Malfoy scowled. “Surely you’ve heard of small-talk.”

“I have,” said Harry. “But in my experience, it rarely involves sharing all your childhood fantasies. With me.”

Malfoy smirked. “Oh, I wasn’t sharing _all_ of them with you. I saved one. But given how I spent the last twelve years _and_ my current job—the main ones were fairly out of the bag, as far as secrets go. I used to pretend I was the King of Atlantis, you know. And as king, I convinced all the Muggles our island sunk just to get them to leave us alone.” He turned back to Harry, still smiling. “Brilliant, right?”

Harry gave him a flat stare. “You are such a git.”

_“Departure to Sicily, Italy, in three minutes!”_ came an amplified, lifeless voice. _“Please return to the Departures dais for your next Portkey.”_

“You’re both gits,” Ginny called around a piece of Dudley’s BBQ-flavoured beef jerky. This was the mother of Harry’s child.

Dudley nodded in agreement, and seemed to be giving Malfoy a pointed look, if the movement of his eyebrows and hips was any indication. Malfoy huffed and turned away, ignoring Dudley completely, but Harry noticed his face was slightly red.

Harry rolled his eyes, but took Gin’s point.

He was wired—they probably all were—from whatever the hell was happening with Atlantis, and it was agitating him. Malfoy walked away, and Harry busied himself awkwardly positioning Snape’s frame in the Sticking Charm so he could see.

Once, Snape had revealed that he’d been Malfoy’s godfather; Harry had no clue why Malfoy couldn’t carry his frame around, then.

But he’d also grown used to carrying Snape; it was almost like Snape had become the parent checking for monsters under beds. In actuality, having Snape’s portrait around had no tangible benefit, but Harry felt, somehow, safer with him there after the explosion at Festival Fringe.

Here in the Brussels Airport, even hidden behind the wards that separated magical from Muggle travel, Harry felt exposed. Snape could always be counted on to keep Harry rooted to reality. Even if that reality, frankly, sucked.

Snape finally spoke up. “By antagonising him, you are only making your own life more difficult, idiot.”

“I’m not antagonising!” Harry hissed.

He could practically feel Snape rolling his eyes, despite not even having a view of his face at present.

“You’re winding up for a fight,” Snape murmured. “Despite his insouciant tone, Draco just shared something deeply personal with you. He’s been enamoured of Atlantis since he was four and Narcissa first told him the story. This…development will be both distressing and thrilling to him. I daresay he was trying to make a…connection—” Harry could hear the sneer in Snape’s voice, “—with you, suspecting you might feel the same.”

Harry frowned. “Why would Malfoy want a connection with me?”

“You are such an imbecile,” Snape sighed, and refused to say another word.

Harry was left feeling confused and, vaguely, guilty. He glanced over at Malfoy, who was still staring out the window of the Brussels Airport Portkey gallery. Did he really get what Harry was feeling? This…encompassing stress of _‘what if?’_ hanging over their heads…this fear that it could all come crashing down in a matter of seconds. But that, under all that, there was a strange, almost vulgar curiosity for what this could mean…for how the world could change from it.

Harry felt restless and unwieldy in his own body.

Muggles didn’t know magic existed, but they knew _something_ did. It was only a matter of time before some relative of some Muggle-born or half-blood—or even one of those themselves—went on telly to give an interview. Or even just let it slip to the wrong person. Everything was too volatile right now. It wouldn’t take more than one small spark to light a global wildfire.

What would it be like if that happened? There was an itch inside Harry that he daren’t give notice to. A restless wonder and eagerness to meet Atlantis head-on.

Feeling twatty, Harry went over to Malfoy, stood next to him facing the window.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. He chanced a glance at Malfoy’s face. “I’m wound up.”

Malfoy didn’t bother looking away from the skyline. “As if it’s any different from how you normally are around me.”

“I don’t, like, _hate_ you,” Harry said, and immediately wanted to kick himself for how Hogwartsian it sounded.

“Since when?” Malfoy could not have expressed disbelief more if he’d literally said ‘the fuck you don’t.’

_“Departure to Sicily, Italy, in one minute!”_ came the amplified, lifeless voice again. _“Please take hold of your designated Portkey and ensure all loose change and valuables are secured for departure.”_

Harry sighed, annoyed, and went to grab their No Refuse Left Behind Biodegrading Portkey™ aubergine, ignoring Malfoy again. If he had to speak to him again, he’d sick up all over him. Maybe on purpose. Malfoy followed him over, holding onto the aubergine just by Harry’s hand.

“Since at least your trial,” Harry added, after a moment of warring with himself.

Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up, but he never got a chance to say whatever sneering remark came to mind because their Portkey activated. Harry kept his mouth firmly closed and pretended he was anywhere but on a spinning Portkey, with anyone but Malfoy, and that he’d eaten anything but fish for breakfast. He really wished there was such a thing as a spell for seasickness.

*


	5. Chapter 5

Their Portkey set them down unexpectedly gently on a sandy shoreline, just outside a set of wards so strong Draco could actually see the magic rippling in front of them.

Inside the wards, two guards armed with bronze-tipped spears stood waiting. The Portkey’s arrival had not gone unnoticed.

As far as Draco could see, the guards wore little beyond leather-backed breastplates and gleaming silver thigh armour over their cloth jodhpurs. They held no wands, but the spears fairly crackled with magic.

The female guard lowered her spear to point at them. Draco refrained, barely, from taking a step backward.

_“Poios eísai?”_ she asked. _“Giatí eísai edó?”_

“Just a moment,” Penelope Clearwater said. “It’s Greek…a bit archaic, but I think I can adjust the standard translator spell for the rest of you. Let me talk with them first.”

And then she dove into a quick back-and-forth with the two guards, all three of them generous with their hand gestures. After several moments, Penelope nodded to the guards and returned to the group.

“They know we’re an emissary group from the mainlands. They’re going to escort us to court—and hopefully to see the Queen. I’m not sure if it’s the same Queen they had when the island disappeared, but it’s a queen nonetheless. I’m going to come around and apply a translating spell to your ears—well, actually, it goes into your Broca’s Area, which is the part of your brain that understands language—and then we’ll go. A warning, though: you’re going to have a hell of a migraine this evening.”

_“Vetus intelligere Graeca,”_ Penelope said, tapping each of Draco’s ears with her wand.

He shuddered. It was never comfortable having another person come near one’s head with their wand.

Potter shuddered when she cast the spell over him, too, and pulled at his left ear several times. He caught Draco looking and gave him a dour glare in response, still wiggling at his ear. Draco rolled his eyes and turned back to the proceedings.

The guards watched all of this warily, spears ready to run any of them through—or perhaps to cast a vicious spell at them. The records on Atlantis had been slim, even with Malfoy resources at hand.

He did know that small, foot-long or thereabouts-length wands were relatively new to magic-working. Staves had been _en vogue_ for many centuries, though they were generally considered too unwieldy today. And amulets still had followers in certain cultures.

There were even sects of ancient magical people who only performed wandless magic—a feat Draco found both impressive and unnecessary. He remembered how hard controlling those first few spells was as a first year with a wand, and also the first wandless spell he ever learned in sixth year. Both had been exhausting both mentally and magically. He couldn’t imagine spending years upon years learning just a half-dozen spells when one could learn hundreds instead.

But he _had_ learned a few wandless spells. And if he could learn one, he could learn more. He refused to ever be completely defenceless again.

The first thing Draco noticed about Atlantis was it was a culture in love with dogs, which was certainly not something that Plato mentioned in his fanciful tales about the island. Neither had his mother mentioned it in the stories she told him, nor any of the endless books he read on Atlantis as a child. Not even the precious journal he’d paid 1,800 Galleons for during Christmas hols sixth year, just to give himself something nicer to focus on every now and then.

The beach was awash with Basenjis rushing the tide, snapping up soft-shelled crabs to eat. Their feet sank into the wet sand—a beautiful fresh white colour so unlike the beaches in Cornwall. The sand dunes were anchored with seagrass and plumeria and the air smelled fresh and alive whenever the wind changed in their favour.

The guards led them up a cobbled path and through the high, granite walls of the city, alongside a boat lock with more guards standing by. Draco shivered as they passed through; there were even more, even stronger wards over the city itself.

The capital city had a number of well-manicured Salukis trotting about, seemingly unattended, going about their own daily errands. As they passed into the city proper, via a tidy, stone-paved road, Draco took note of the city’s layout. It was just like the stories had said: a huge, wondrous city spread between concentric rings of land, then rings of canals, then more rings of land.

Houses, shops, grain storage, and other buildings rose up all around them. The city was full of life, and while the citizens gave their group guarded looks as they passed through, no one looked particularly hostile. Draco watched unashamedly—there were women sweeping front steps, children playfully zapping one another with gold-tinted spells, men and women carrying heavy stones by hand and other men and women carrying them with magic and intense concentration.

There were children Scorpius’s age jumping off of roofs and fluttering safely to the ground, and others gutting fish with knives, their little tongues sticking from their mouths while enterprising dogs licked up the refuse by their feet.

_“You have to eat the gizzard, too,”_ one small girl said sternly to a small, white-and-tan Kokoni. Draco would have sworn the dog glared up at her from the fish head it was gnawing on.

The translation spell was like a tension-headache building, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care. He felt like he would burst with childish exuberance, and wished, for a brief moment, that Scorpius could’ve seen this, too.

“Holy shit,” Potter whispered, his head turning like a child to take in all the sights.

Draco would have preferred that his _id_ just leave Potter the fuck alone and not even respond, but his mouth, as Draco’s mother once said, often did well enough on its own.

“Never seen such luxury, have you, Potter? You must be overwhelmed.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Potter said, but he was too busy staring at a fine, white Saluki with hair like that American witch Stevie Nicks, who was graciously accepting a basket of sweetbreads from the butcher, and there wasn’t much feeling behind it.

To Ginny Weasley, Potter said, “Are those dogs on _errands_?”

Ginny, one of six acceptable Weasleys—the only outlier being Ronald—craned her neck to take in the scene. An Alopekis, which Draco had thought was extinct in this form, was apparently conversing, through yips, with a fisherman returning from sea. The fisherman listened attentively, nodded, and handed the dog a single fish.

“Yes,” decided Weasley.

Potter nodded, brows furrowed. “Is it just me, or do you feel like we’re being watched?”

“We’re strange foreigners walking through a capital city that hasn’t seen visitors in millennia. Of course we’re being watched,” said Draco. He did manage to avoid rolling his eyes.

“No, it’s not that,” said Potter. “It feels…different. My skin’s crawling and I feel… _exposed_.”

Draco immediately shifted closer to Potter, his chosen bodyguard (because Potter always managed to live and if they were being attacked, Draco was certainly getting behind him), and put his hand on his wand.

“Where?” Draco asked.

Potter looked around, furtive, but his expression remained tightly neutral. Ahead, the guards were conversing with Penelope and two officials the British Ministry had sent along. Adding in the three-odd-dozen others who’d volunteered themselves from the ICW meeting, their diplomatic party was more like a small army.

If Draco had been consulted, he would have started talks with a less aggressively sized party. Two or three key people to meet with the Queen and establish rapport, develop trust between their nations.

But he was not a Supreme Mugwump, nor a Minister of Magic, nor someone who could even have lunch with his mother in Diagon Alley. So Draco had not been consulted.

“I feel it, too,” Dudley whispered.

He was, Draco had found, surprisingly circumspect, given his relation to Potter.

Dudley looked up, scanning the sky, maybe for Muggle airplanes. “Do you think it’s some military?”

“Maybe…” Potter allowed, but he didn’t look convinced.

“Whoever it is,” Draco said tightly, “stop looking for them. It’s always better to not let on that you know you’re being watched.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Snape says that, too.”

“As if you ever listen,” Severus muttered, from half-beneath Potter’s coat lapel. Draco had no idea how he was seeing anything but the strap from Potter’s shoulder bag and a bit of stone facade.

They passed through more of the city. Draco squinted; further to the south, beyond the aqueduct and row of windmills, he would swear he saw destroyed buildings, scorch marks and broken walls. There was a shipyard in the far harbour, though several of the ships looked worse for wear.

Shortly after, they approached a large palace, built high and white in the Greek fashion of yore. Draco wasn’t surprised by this—the few surviving sketches and paintings of Atlantean architecture suggested the same—but it was still astounding to finally witness firsthand.

Draco he’d rekindled his love of Atlantis after the War, hoping at first to escape from the monotony of house-arrest. Where Narcissa had obsessively taken up and mastered useless hobby after useless hobby, Draco had thrown himself back into his childhood, escaping into nostalgia. Into times before the War, before they were all trapped in a home that terrified them. For years, Draco and Narcissa had struggled not to resent Lucius his community service; humiliating as it was meant to be, at least he got to leave the Manor.

Later, as his own five-year house-arrest had come to an end and Draco had ventured out into Diagon Alley for the first time again, he’d realised just how little time healed wounds. He’d nearly been killed in the resulting mob. Then, he’d used it as an excuse to leave England—to go to the sites of the world’s ancient cultures to try to find some long-forgotten magic that would save his family from ruin.

There had been no ancient spell that could change the hearts and minds of people, but there had been many, many other strange and interesting ones. Spells that turned tigers into butter; and thirty-four different kinds of sexual lubrication spells from around the world; and Viking rituals to make their ships sail without wind or water.

This collection of knowledge had been, seemingly, useless. Until Astoria had sent Draco the _Prophet_ clipping advertising the new position of Professor of Ancient Cultures and Casting.

It was like it had been made just for him. A sign that it was time to return home and begin to use what he’d gained to actually pull his family from ruin. To ensure Scorpius didn’t suffer for his father’s and grandfather’s mistakes.

During none of those years had Draco ever imagined he’d actually get to see anything approaching the _real thing_. It almost made the circumstances under which he did so bearable. He felt both jubilant and terrified; thrilled and guilty. This was his life’s dream, but it threatened his whole world.

Finally, they entered the big, white building at the end of the avenue. The inside was cool and fresh-smelling. There were vents built in along the tops of each wall, like long, thin windows that allowed air from a clean-watered ocean to circulate without being windy. Succulents and viney plants were tucked into crevices.

Near the door, there was a small mahogany desk, and one single, old woman sat at it, writing in a vellum book with a crane-quill pen. She looked up when they entered. Her white hair was big, fluffy, piled atop her head in a braided bun, and contrasted sharply with her deep olive skin.

“What business do you have?” she asked.

Draco barely refrained from wincing as the translator spell rearranged the words in his brain to modern English. They screeched against his grey matter before settling into sense.

“We were alerted to a ward breach at the southern shore. More foreign emissaries arrived from the mainlands,” the male guard said. “Queen Sostrate has asked all emissaries be brought directly to her.”

“She’s meeting with the Senate,” the old witch said and pointed her quill at a long, hardwood bench against the far wall. “Have the foreigners wait. I will ask if she is accepting visitors this afternoon.”

They went to sit on the long bench, though there were far too many of them to all fit. Draco managed to secure a spot before the rush, and Potter sat next to him. Draco smiled blandly at the Ministry witch glaring at him, who’d not been fast enough to secure a seat.

“You feel as if our party’s a bit too—forceful?” Potter whispered to him. “Thirteen reps from the Ministry alone. They can’t all be that important.”

“Says the humble Boy-Who-Lived,” Draco replied, _sotto voce_. 

Potter breathed a laugh, smirked at him from the corner of his eye. “In this case, I’ve actually worked hard for my achievement. Dud and I have put in tonnes of hours of research and field-studies, and we really are the only experts in Magical-Muggle comparative studies and immersion. And if we’re doing damage control for the Statute, we actually, you know, have valuable knowledge to share. I know that’s hard for you to believe.”

Draco nodded. “Extremely difficult,” he agreed.

From his peripheral, he caught Potter rolling his eyes. They both continued to ignore the pointed looks they were getting from people who hadn’t managed to score seats on the bench.

It wasn’t long before they were called back to see the Queen. Draco had not expected an audience with _royalty_ to be granted so easily or quickly—especially for the group of dullards here with him today—but he supposed the world’s population had been much lower the last time this nation existed, so heads of state had likely enjoyed freer diaries.

They followed a long, marbled corridor through the building, with the lovely upper air vents keeping even the most interior of rooms fresh and cool.

The Queen’s receiving room was at the northwestern corner. It was a large, circular room that jutted out from the rest of the building and had lead-paned windows built into every available wall space. The plaster was freshly whitewashed.

There was a long, paper-screened divider cutting the space in half, as if to separate those who were meeting with the Queen from those who were truly important enough to fully enter the room. A long, wooden table took up most of the visible half of the room, but it was not nearly large enough to seat their full party. Draco strategically chose the best chair to maximise his chances of actually getting to speak to the Queen.

The Queen herself stood by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, draped in a burgundy toga with golden torc, bangles, and laurel leaf-stamped belt. Her hair was tied back in a braid that fell to her hips. Four guards stood nearby, watching, unimpressed, as the foreigners entered.

An attendant announced their party at the door, and the Queen nodded once, but it was another long moment before she turned her face away from the sky outside the window to face them.

She had eyes and hair as black as Uncle Sev’s had been, but unlike his dungeon-begotten pallor, Queen Sostrate was olive-toned, with a fine jaw and high cheekbones that spoke of good chew training as a child. It was something Millicent’s parents had not bothered with, but Hermione Granger’s, Draco had been unable to ignore, had.

The Queen gave them a thorough once-over, and then gestured with one long-fingered hand for them to enter the room.

“You’ve come to discuss our sudden reappearance in the world,” the Queen surmised, her voice deep. “This week promises to be an endless parade of visits by dignitaries and militaries. I suspect I’ll become an expert by the end. I am Queen Sostrate—” her voice rolling the name out: _Sos-truh-tee_ , “the First, ruler of Atlantis. I welcome you to my country.”

She took a seat at the head of the table, and then dipped her head for them to follow suit.

Draco and Potter wasted no time going for seats—although Draco maintained a more dignified approach, carefully orchestrating it to look like chance that he’d made it to a good chair first.

He took a seat near the head, but not so near that she’d have to strain her neck to speak to him. He was overflowing with excitement at the prospect of speaking to the actual Queen of Atlantis—much like a young Bichon Frisé after a toy—and was not going to get sidelined in the conversation due to awkward seating arrangement or having to stand.

Potter sat across from him, standing Severus’s gilt-framed travel portrait up with a perfect view that, as a benefit, obstructed the face of the very short Ministry witch. The same one who’d glared at them in the lobby _and_ at the ICW meeting. Draco could definitely get behind Potter’s surprisingly funny and subtle pettiness, though it presented a danger to Draco’s ability to refrain from wanking over him for the foreseeable future. It made him feel as if they were on the same side for once.

A price Draco was willing to pay if his future continued to hold visiting Atlantis, speaking to its Queen, and watching Potter pretend to be an all-round nice chap while in actuality being the King of Petty.

Penelope took the first seat next to Potter, as translator, though she had to explain this basic concept to the rude American wizard who’d wanted to _Obliviate_ the whole sodding world. The others filled in around the edges without any efforts at all toward strategy. Most of the British Ministry officials did make an effort to get seats near the Queen, but had not acted quickly enough to be successful, and were stuck standing midway down the table next to the German Mugwump’s executive assistant, the sole representative for the ICW itself.

A moment later, a man and woman of similar colouring to the Queen, wearing white togas, entered the room from the outside-leading glass-paned door. The guards Conjured two elegant chairs for them, placed in a half-circle around the Queen. Then the guards stepped back to a respectable distance again.

“My Council of Advisors,” said Queen Sostrate, by way of explanation.

The advisors themselves did not acknowledge this or the group in any way. They simply sat and watched.

“Thank you for seeing us, Your Majesty,” Penelope began, once they’d all sat. “We apologise for coming without an invitation. Our messenger owls had trouble with navigation.”

The Queen cocked her head, listening carefully to Penelope’s words. Her Greek was solid, Draco could tell, but her Ancient Greek less so.

“You would have better luck sending an Alectoris,” said Queen Sostrate. “We have bred familiarity of our school of magic into them, and my Council believes it continues to this day.”

“Thank you, Your Dignity. Yes, that phrase brings us cleanly to the reason of our arriving,” spoke one of the Ministry officials in a painfully jarring broken Greek.

He was obviously using the translator spell to give him the Greek words to say, and it came out sounding like a coded message that had been decoded and re-coded several times over. Draco despaired.

“Why Atlantis has reappeared after—what is the current year?” Queen Sostrate asked, directing her question at Potter. Of course.

The American representative, looming behind Penelope, spoke up. “2013.”

Draco rolled his eyes. As if they’d used a Gregorian calendar.

The Queen stared at the American representative—he was still looming, as if he had no idea what personal space meant.

“It is 13.0.0.12.2 in the Mayan Calendar, Your Majesty,” Severus spoke up from his frame. Draco noted he did not require a translator spell to converse. “Are you familiar with that dating system?”

“Ah,” the Queen said, relaxing back into her carved mahogany chair. “Yes, we traded with the Mayans frequently. I do hope they also send an emissary. I should like to reestablish our agreement.”

There was an awkward silence. Predictably, one of the Ministry idiots broke it. “Doubtful. They died or disappeared about a thousand years ago.”

The silence returned. After a moment, Queen Sostrate said, “I see.”

She smiled blandly. “Well, then. By my calculations, I hid Atlantis 11,600 years ago. That’s quite a long time. When we enacted the spell, we had no knowledge of when our island would choose to reappear. The world is very different from how we left it, but magic does know best. This was, you see, the time it knew we were needed—”

Again, she was interrupted by badly translated Greek from the British Ministry. “I am so joyous you mentioned that, Queen. You understand, this land has shattered an imperative global ban on showing magic to people who cannot perform magic. You will need to place the hide spell again.”

Draco wished the earth would open up to swallow him whole. It would be a fitting end for this travesty of childhood dreams coming true. At this point, he daren’t open his mouth and risk being lumped together with the rest of the British idiots. From a remove, he watched his chances of studying this culture firsthand disappear into a void, as if Banished.

Queen Sostrate was unamused but very politic about showing it. “I cannot.”

“I am fearful that it is required,” the Ministry man continued, practically oozing false apologies.

“I must rephrase, then: I _will not_ place Atlantis under that spell again. It was a desperate act that ruined the lives, lineages, and histories of many of my people. And as I said, the magic knows best; now is when Atlantis is needed.”

The Ministry man was getting irritated now, which Draco both enjoyed seeing and dreaded because he knew exactly what came from playing Hippogriff with cleverer people. Enjoyed it because Slytherin children didn’t even have tea parties without schadenfreude built in. Dreaded it because this was entirely too important to be fucked up by some Ministry flunky.

“If I may,” said Draco, in his best Greek, which was a damned sight better than the civil servant’s. He could not bear it a moment longer; he had to try to save this bin fire. “Your Majesty, what my countryman is attempting to impart to you is that in the nearly 12,000 years since your kingdom existed, the population of the world has grown to nearly seven billion people. The magical community is, by comparison, only two percent of that—a mere 140 million witches and wizards to six-point-nine billion non-magicals. We have been hunted and killed for our magic over the years, which historians agree wiped out over eighty per cent of our magical lineages. We enacted what is called the ‘Statute of Secrecy’ worldwide—no magical person may expose non-magical people to the existence of magic. It’s the only way we’ve survived, and we need your help to ensure that the Muggles—non-magicals—forget that Atlantis ever reappeared.”

The Queen frowned, but Draco knew it was not at him particularly, but at the message he’d been forced to relay.

“I see,” she said, and the shaky quality to her voice suggested that it was true. “The world was not like that when we were last part of it.”

She pushed back from the table and stood, walking again to the window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The guards moved to follow her at a respectable distance, and the Council stood to confer with her.

It was still early morning here, though it was surely lunchtime back in Scotland. The morning sunlight spread over the Queen’s face and washed her features away until she was just a red-clothed body with a face of light, surrounded by two advisors with concerned faces and voices too low to make out.

Their party began to shift uncomfortably in their chairs and on their feet as they waited. Potter exchanged an incredulous look with Draco, which Draco did not return, so he exchanged it with Dudley instead. Meanwhile, Draco was staring at Uncle Sev’s frame, waiting for the clever bastard to give him some idea of what to do, but Severus only watched the Queen.

Finally, Queen Sostrate sighed. She turned away from her window, backlit like magic itself. “I see and understand your point,” she said again, nodding graciously to Draco.

She returned to the table and retook her seat, folding her hands in front of her. “But, Atlantis cannot comply. Our quest requires that all people of the world know of us.”

“What quest?” the female Ministry worker exclaimed in broken Greek. “You are a monarch, not a knight!”

The Queen’s smile froze. “I beg your pardon?” she said slowly.

The short witch didn’t sit back down. “Atlantis must resume the hiding spell or the British Ministry will take it as an act of war!”

“Now, just a moment, Jemina,” the other Ministry worker said. “That’s a bit hasty.”

Jemina glared at him. “Minister Yogg tasked us with getting Atlantis hidden again, just as we hide Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. It is not so much to ask!”

“I’m afraid I must agree, Your Majesty,” said the German Supreme Mugwump’s assistant. “The ICW requires all member nations to remain in compliance. As of yesterday, Atlantis is out of compliance.”

“Atlantis is not a member nation,” said the Queen. “We are a sovereign state with no affiliations whatsoever, and your federation did not exist when we hid.”

“Nearly every magical nation in the world has agreed to the Statute of Secrecy,” said the assistant apologetically. “To refuse would be to declare war on every other magical nation in the world.”

The Queen’s lips firmed. “You will find,” she said slowly, “declaring war on Atlantis to be a grave mistake.”

“Would it?” asked Jemina Thatchery, angrily. “I see no army.”

The guards advanced immediately, their spears angled towards the party. Queen Sostrate took a long, slow breath, her eyes closed. She exhaled, lifted a hand to stay the guards.

“I believe I fully understand your position now. I thank you for your time.”

Very obviously dismissed, the delegation began to awkwardly stir. No one wanted to be the first to rise, nor the last. But the Queen had stood and removed to a corner to speak once more with her Council, and it was inadvisable to remain seated while a Queen stood. Draco stood, bowed to the Queen even though she wasn’t even bothering to look at them, and made for the door, his heart at the bottom of his stomach.

Potter and ex-Potter followed suit, though Ginny performed a lovely, deep curtsey that Draco would not have expected a Weasley to be able to execute. They began to file out, some faster than others.

“So we can count on your support then,” called the assistant to the Mugwump, lingering by the door. “When can we expect Atlantis to raise the wards again?”

“Atlantis was not hidden with _wards_ ,” Sostrate said, turning back to them. Draco nearly expired from the look on her face alone. “It was made non-existent. We did not hide. There was nowhere for us _to_ hide. We ceased to exist, until magic decided to put us here again. To you, we have been gone 12,000 years. To us, it was literally just yesterday. And we will not do that again. You have made your position clear, and clearly you are but a small portion of the world, not nearly enough to help us solve this problem—a problem you’ll find to be much worse than loss of secrecy. Atlantis will turn instead to the seven billion non-magical people of the world.”

“What?!” exclaimed several bureaucrats at once.

“Yes,” she said. “I have already met with representatives from the countries of Australia, Brasil, and United States. Representatives from a dozen other nations have sent delegates with requests for an audience. I will spend efforts on these countries instead. Thank you for your time.”

“We represent magical people! You can’t do that—“

“I think you will find, madam,” the Queen said lowly, “that not only can I do that, I can also order executions. My patience is long, but you have worn it away like the tide. Leave, _now_.”

They hurried from the room. Only Draco and Potter hesitated. Draco because this was his life’s work crumbling all around him and to have to leave so soon was harder to deal with than he’d thought it would be. Potter, he had no idea why. Until he heard Severus call out from his frame.

“Your Majesty?”

The Queen, a woman of exemplary patience, turned and favoured Severus with a tight look, but no orders for execution. Perhaps she remembered his knowledge of relevant calendars. “Yes?”

“My name is Severus Snape. I was one of three Potions Masters in the British Isles at the time of my death, and the most published and cited in recorded history—but I have nothing on the Potions Masters of Atlantis. I wondered if your island had portraits that I might visit. Portraits with libraries—if I might impose on you to study some of your works.”

The Queen huffed out a small laugh, her eyes crinkling. “My, but your people are bold. Some insult me, then others ask favours.”

“If it helps, Your Majesty,” said Severus, “I did not vote for the current administration. Or the one I died under.”

She laughed fully this time. “You are truly dead then? I had thought you merely projected your eyesight to attend this meeting. Yes, Severus Snape. Our entire collection is painted into a framed mural in the library, and you can find it if you have a frame hanging on one of the library walls.”

“If the painting was made by a magical person, I can read them,” he said. “Might I remain? For a time, at least?”

“You may.”

To Potter, she said, “Leave his frame here and I will have one of my aides find a spot for him on the library wall. We had a number of visiting academics from the Gallic, Chinese, and Mayan communities who did the same before—well, before we all stopped existing.”

Potter handed Severus’s frame to one of the white-togaed Council members, and exited with Draco. They followed some paces behind their party, listening with half an ear to the irritated complaints of the bureaucrats, who were not even trying to lower their voices in deference to the echoing walls.

“That went well,” Potter said quietly, as they walked into the sunshine. He held his face up to the sky, squinting against the light, smiling a little as it hit his brown face.

Draco, who was beginning to feel the agonising stab of crushed childhood dreams as well as a translation spell-imposed migraine, merely sighed. “Funnily enough, I was looking forward to exploring the city. Perhaps a research sabbatical in the next few years.”

“Yeah, I don’t see that happening in the near future,” Potter said wryly.

Draco didn’t, either. He peered through the thick array of buildings; yes that was definitely scorch marks on that far building. “The future is starting to look pretty bleak,” he agreed.

“What do you think will happen with the Muggle governments?”

Draco glanced at him, frowning. “You’re the Muggle expert. You tell me.”

Potter frowned, staring off into the distance again. Ahead of them, the short, rude Ministry witch, Jemina Thatchery, gestured angrily with her hands while the ICW rep listened attentively.

“I think we don’t want to have every Muggle government in the world teamed up against us, and we’re incredibly stupid to destroy a chance to work with those governments and their magical liaisons to keep the existence of magic under wraps.”

That was about the same conclusion Draco had, unfortunately, come to. At least the plumeria smelled nice.

*


	6. Chapter 6

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep.

He’d never really thought much at all of the Statute of Secrecy. Some silly little bureaucracy that made scared pure-bloods feel better at night, and nothing more. This wasn’t the 1600s. They weren’t all going to be burned at the stake.

For one thing, the UK didn’t have capital punishment anymore.

But he still couldn’t sleep. He still couldn’t stop thinking about how weird it was now that they were on the cusp of losing that secrecy forever. Muggles hadn’t yet completely figured it out, but Harry’d snagged a paper from Dudley’s house in Hogsmeade, and it was clear: they knew _something_ was going on. They just hadn’t yet pinpointed what that something was. Letters to the editor opined a number of different explanations, from a perfectly plausible (to some) wormhole, to a connection with crop circles in Wiltshire. No one had yet suggested magic.

But would they? Would Queen Sostrate convince Muggle emissaries and heads of state to release that information, for the good of the public?

And furthermore—what problem had the Queen been so adamant they needed Muggles to solve?

Harry couldn’t stop thinking about it all.

Would Occam’s Razor have suggested wormholes or magic as the real answer?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything right now, except that the students were due back next week and his entire life was in upheaval (again).

_Were there really crop circles in Wiltshire?_ Harry wondered as he stared up at the ceiling, one hand absently stroking Ms Danger’s soft, invisible fur.

There was someone who would probably know the answer. Someone who’d also know a lot about Atlantis. Someone who, given his upbringing, was probably also losing his shit in a very dignified manner in his own rooms.

He couldn’t sit still any longer. He had to talk about this with someone else who _got it_.

Harry hopped out of bed, causing Ms Danger to grumble and burrow into the warm spot he’d left behind. He gave her a fond, unseen smile, pulled on his dressing gown and slippers, and quietly left his suite.

Malfoy had a tower nearly all to himself in the History Wing. Flora Fortescue and Justin Finch-Fletchley—the History of Magic teachers—had rooms in that wing, too, but not in the tower itself. Malfoy was isolated, which made sneaking up to his rooms easier.

Harry had not been sure, at the time of his hire, if Minerva put him up there for his protection or everyone else’s. Maybe it was neither—maybe he needed the space to practice those wild, ancient spells he would teach the students this year. Whenever Malfoy casted, the air went all cold and fresh like eucalyptus, and he dragged that scent around with him for hours afterwards. Which of course Harry noticed.

Harry shivered as he made the long, draughty walk from his rooms near the Infirmary to Malfoy’s. When he got there, he tapped on Poseidon’s frame and waited, thinking to himself that he was on the verge of freezing to death or at least developing frostbite.

Several long moments later, the door swung inwards, revealing Malfoy, feet bare, wrapped up snug in a black velvet dressing gown.

“Potter? What the fuck are you doing here? It’s past two in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Harry.

He shifted to his other foot, really wishing he’d bothered with real shoes because it was cold as death up here in this tower. He’d forgotten how draughty towers got. “Can I come in?’

“Can you—? Potter, are you out of your mind? I was sleeping!”

“At least one of us could then,” muttered Harry. Then, “Look, I just wanted to talk about the thing…the Statute, and Atlantis, and I figured you’d know a lot about it, and also that you’d be equally disturbed by the Statute being threatened and, you know, what that might mean. After the ICW ruined our chances of working with Atlantis. I’m going to go mad thinking about this alone in my quarters. Can we just, I don’t know, talk?”

Malfoy threw his head back, sighing at the ceiling. But he stood back and let the door open wider. Poseidon glared at them both. “Fine. Come in.”

Gratefully, Harry did. He was very pleased to discover that the wooden floors in Malfoy’s quarters had Warming Charms built in. A brilliant idea, which Harry should’ve implemented eleven years ago.

“Tea, then, I suppose?” said Malfoy, already tossing powder onto the smouldering logs to call the kitchens.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Harry took a seat in one of the two well-cushioned wingbacks by the fireplace and curled his feet beneath himself. They sat in a weird silence until a kitchen elf popped up with a tea service. Harry put three sugars in, even though he’d been trying to cut back ever since Dudley got on that Keto diet and made him feel so unnecessarily guilty about the most innocent amount of sweetener.

“Does this whole thing feel really surreal to you?” asked Harry.

He blew on his tea, staring straight down into the cup to avoid looking at Malfoy’s face while the other man thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at Malfoy in particular, more that he was having trouble looking at anyone right now.

Hermione and Ron had Floo’d late last night and Harry had nearly self-combusted from the sheer wide-eyed frenzy in their eyes, completely at odds with their very forced-calm voices. Harry was grateful he had Luna to help him and Gin—both notorious over-reactors—keep Albus safe and of sound mind during this whole thing. Merlin knew Harry was shit at it himself. He just kept worrying about Albus, but was afraid to have him around him, in case the trouble that always followed Harry caught Al up in the mix.

Malfoy wasn’t the type to be scared. The last time Malfoy’d shown fear, he’d been climbing a tower of burning furniture. Harry didn’t want to see if that fear was there again.

“ _Really_ surreal,” Malfoy agreed.

Harry heard him sip at his tea, chanced a look up at his face. He was stark white, not even the warm glow of the fire colouring his face. All at once, Harry felt his insides twist, like a rag being wrung over a sink. Malfoy was definitely unnerved.

Harry said, “I keep waiting for something to happen, for the Muggles to suddenly figure it all out. It’s like we’re in this holding pattern—“

“What?”

“When Muggle airplanes are waiting to land, and they fly around in a big circle until they get permission. It feels like that, like something’s supposed to happen and I don’t know when it’s going to come, which makes it all the more terrifying. What happens if they figure it out? What happens if the Queen tells some Muggle military and they leak it to their press and then it’s all over? What happens if the ICW does something stupid in response? Then Muggles start looking for us, start keeping tabs on weird things our kids do, start trying to smoke us out—”

“Potter,” Malfoy said slowly. “Are you _afraid_?”

Harry looked up from his tea again. Malfoy was staring straight at him over the rim of his cup, the steam wafting up and dampening his fringe. He looked so serious right then, so sturdy, and for once, Harry really wished Malfoy could be the brave one instead. This felt so much bigger than Voldemort. He laughed, nervous.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, running his free hand through his hair. “I didn’t think I was, but tonight I just couldn’t stop thinking about everything. My mind was flying like a Snitch. I kept going back and forth with myself—Muggles wouldn’t burn us all at the stake again. I don’t think they would, anyway. But what if they did?”

Harry looked at Malfoy. “Am I overreacting?”

Malfoy blinked several times. “You’re asking _me_ that?” He laughed once, showing all his white teeth. “Of all people! I would never want Muggles to find out about us. Not because I think they’re inferior—what does that even matter?—but because we’re entirely too different to coexist peacefully.”

“Malfoy, that’s—” Harry began, eyes narrowed.

“No, listen to me, damn it,” snapped Malfoy. “What good could possibly come from our communities coming together? You think they’d just say, ‘Magic? Jolly good!’ and leave us alone? Not on your life, they won’t. They’d have us strapped down in adamantine chambers with plastic tubes shoved down our throats and electric shocks every five minutes to see how our magic reacted to it. The best we could hope for is they’d just drain us dry of our magic, demanding more and more medical help, more and more clean up for all the things they’ve fucked up on the planet, more and more fixes for race and religious wars. And I don’t think there’s any force in the Universe strong enough to stop that from happening long enough for us to. You think I, of all people, would think you’re overreacting? You’re under-reacting, Potter, and you know it.”

Harry frowned, thinking over Malfoy’s words. He didn’t want them to be true.

“Maybe not if they came to see us as equals,” Harry said. “If they needed us for…for something else.”

“Something else like what?”

Harry shrugged, turned away, focusing his gaze out of Malfoy’s tower window, where in the distance, he saw three fairy lights, drifting slowly across the sky and then suddenly zipping upwards. He’d never seen fairies do that before. He supposed everyone was acting strange in the aftermath of Atlantis.

Harry turned back to Malfoy, sighing. “Just that thing the Queen said—that we needed to all come together to solve some problem. _What_ problem?”

Malfoy frowned into his cup. “I heard that, too.”

Silence stretched between them then. Harry heard little beyond the creaks of the castle as it settled, and his own forcefully slow breathing. He was _not_ the type to be anxious. _What on earth was making him feel so anxious?_

“I’m a bit…uneasy,” Harry finally admitted.

Malfoy stared at him, and in that moment, Harry would’ve sworn Malfoy could see right into him, to his very bones, and even the marrow inside. He shuddered, and Malfoy kept staring. He took a sip of his tea, his eyes still watching Harry over the rim as the fireplace crackled beside them.

“You should be,” he said at last.

If Harry had come to him tonight for sleep, he knew then that he wouldn’t get it. He doubted Malfoy would, either.

*

Astoria came at teatime, bringing their son with her.

She gave him the same smile she gave everyone, the one that had once made him think he could weather the storm of his annoyingly uncommon preferences and make a life with a woman, could love that same woman as well as his father loved his mother. Draco felt the same warmth he always felt at that smile, only now he realised it was the warmth everyone felt around her.

Even Potter liked her.

“Hello, love,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek as she glided inside his chambers as if she’d been there a hundred times. “Scorpius, did you remember the book? Daddy can finish it with you tonight since we didn’t get to it.”

To Draco, she added, “We’re reading the new Granger children’s mystery series. Very cosy. Who would’ve guessed Hermione Granger had a creative streak?”

Certainly not Draco. He held the door open for Scorpius, who was lollygagging as usual, raising an eyebrow at the suspiciously guilty look Scorpius had on his round face.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Hi.”

Scorpius beamed at him as he sped by and disappeared into his bedroom.

“He’s been playing with Albus Potter,” Astoria said, with that patient, amused look on her face she always used when she was warning him about something she thought he was going to ridiculously overreact about. “They stole away together at breakfast while you were in Atlantis, and now he’s going with Albus to his Gran’s this weekend. They have LEGO.”

“Merlin, redeem me,” Draco muttered.

“He has, love,” said Astoria. “We’re divorced.”

Draco gave her a look. He knew full well she was just as grateful to be free of a relationship in general as he was to be free of one with a woman.

Draco said nothing. He would much rather savour the future moment when she’d finally had enough wine and couldn’t hold the secret in any longer; then he’d tell her he’d always known and let her huff and complain over not getting to keep _anything_ a secret from him.

It wasn’t like Draco _tried_ to know everything about everyone. He’d just learned very well from Lucius.

“Lesson plans done?” he asked her instead.

She flopped down on his couch, leant her head back against the rest in a way she’d never do in front of anyone else. “I never thought teaching children how to paint and draw would take so much planning. Seven years doing it, and it’s still a pain in my pert arse.”

Draco had to admit it was quite pert. He smirked to himself; too bad she’d never share it with anyone else.

He called down for tea. She lifted her head and he hastily cleared the look from his face. The tea arrived and he busied himself pouring each of them a cup.

She said, “Have you finished yours, yet? The first year was ghastly. Hogwarts hadn’t had an art teacher for thirty-six years and the last syllabus was still teaching the Erasing Charm during the perspective lessons, even though the art world has known for absolute decades it degrades parchment quality.”

Draco sipped his tea. In the background, Scorpius was making some suspicious noise in his bedroom, but Draco chose to ignore it for now. “What nonsense.”

Astoria picked hers up as well, sniffed at it, and frowned. It was some modern citrus blend the house-elves were trying out lately; Draco didn’t blame her for the reaction. “I imagine it must be even more bothersome for you, creating a brand-new class.”

“The Headmistress gave me…ample direction.”

Astoria laughed. “Oh, I bet she did. Minerva’s forthright if she’s anything.” She sipped, apparently deciding to suffer through rather than return the tea for something less imaginative and risk being seen as impolite. “What was it like, Atlantis? Was it like the stories?”

Draco hesitated. “No, it wasn’t,” he said at last.

There was a part of him that was disappointed by that fact, even as another part of him was intoxicated by the chance to be the historian who corrected misinformation for future generations. “Do you remember the summer we spent in Athens after I was released, that day we went to the Temple of Poseidon in Sounio?”

She smiled, her eyes focused somewhere else. “It was lovely. Even with all the people around.” She frowned. “That night, your father called and made pointed remarks about your lack of heir.”

“The beginning of our end,” he said, tipping his cup towards her in tribute.

She smiled, a little wistfully. “Well, it got us Scorpius, at least. Though, I think I would’ve enjoyed a few more years with just you and me traveling around, and neither of us trying to initiate sex.”

“Must you?”

“I understand art teachers are meant to be free spirits,” she said, shrugging. “At least, that’s what Luna always tells me, so I’ve decided to embrace it.”

“As long as you don’t embrace it in front of my parents.”

She rolled her eyes. “What about the Temple?”

“I felt like I was back there—but when it was new. The homes and buildings in Atlantis were made from the same stone, exact same architectural style as those damned pillars, but Atlantis existed almost 12,000 years prior. How could Greece have been so similar?

“It was both bigger than I imagined and smaller, the technology mind-bogglingly thoughtful. In truth, I thought I was imagining it all. I think I always half-believed Atlantis really had been a myth—it was just too much technology, too much knowledge, way too soon for human civilisation—followed by 10,000 years of people throwing rocks at one another and learning how to make crops grow. And Atlantis had a navy that sailed without wind, aqueducts, domesticated livestock both magical and mundane, man-made harbours in perfectly geometric concentric circles, windmills, river mechanisms that generated magical and electrical energy.

“And then I saw it, and my first thought was no human could’ve built that city—that _country_ —then. When we stood between the pillars at the Temple and we looked down at the Mediterranean, that vertigo you felt? I understood it finally. I felt it in Atlantis.”

“How strange,” she said, her eyes bright with interest. “And how wonderful. I think I’d like to visit.”

“Good luck securing a permit,” he said. “I heard from Croaker the Ministry’s restricting all non-essential travel after this week’s travesty.”

She frowned. “I don’t get what they’re so upset about. So the Queen wouldn’t go back into hiding, so what? It apparently isn’t even necessary. Pansy and I’ve been following the _Telegraph_ and no one suspects magic at all. It was a close call, but I think we’ll all be fine in the end. Muggles will explain it away as some natural phenomenon and life will go on.”

Draco’s gut didn’t agree with that, but he couldn’t pinpoint why, so he said nothing.

Just then, Scorpius sneaked out of his bedroom with a book in his hand. He popped up next to Draco on the oversized chair and, very importantly, handed him the book.

Draco glanced at the cover. It had lovely oil-pastel artwork of a little girl on a broom, zooming over Hogwarts while a Welsh Green chased her, done in vibrant colours. The title read: _Kalla Penumbra and the Dragon’s Lonely Heartstring_ , written by H J Granger.

“We’re on chapter nine,” Scorpius informed him. “Mum says you can finish reading it for me tonight.”

Draco looked at where the bookmark stuck out, only halfway through what must have been at least 220 pages. “You expect to get through the last half of this book in the four hours before your bedtime, including dinner?”

Scorpius nodded. “It’s important. I need to know what happens.”

“You realise you can read yourself?” Draco reminded him. “I distinctly remember teaching you three years ago.”

Scorpius shrugged. “I want to close my eyes so I can absorb it better.”

Draco gave Astoria a Look. This shit came from the Greengrass side, _not_ the Malfoy side.

She smiled banally back at him. “I suppose I should finish up my lesson plans.”

She stood, came over to press a kiss to the top of Scorpius’s head, and patted Draco’s matching one with rather more amusement. “I’ll see you later.”

She saw herself out, blowing a little kiss to Poseidon guarding Draco’s door. Poseidon called after her, yelling what a siren she was, and her merry laughter filled the hallway before the door shut behind her, and they were once again in quiet.

Scorpius cleared his throat.

Draco frowned, opened the bookmarked page, and took a deep, much-needed breath.

_“Chapter Nine. All Kalla could think about was the mysterious letter she’d received from her mother, written in purple biro, and not quill and ink, as she was a Muggle. But that wasn’t the mysterious part. The mysterious part was the code her Mum had included within, hidden under a false letter, obviously Charmed to hide it by her father, who was a wizard…”_

*

Harry met Hermione at the Three Broomsticks. She was always looking for an excuse to get out of the house now she’d taken a (so far, multi-year) sabbatical from the Ministry and spent her days with only Rose and Hugo for company. Harry was always happy to oblige her.

“Albus has apparently turned Scorpius Malfoy onto your new children’s book,” Harry said, smirking. He’d never been so amused in his life as when Luna told him.

Hermione sipped at her ale. “I’ve written three sequels to the Kalla Penumbra book now. Due next year. It’s going to be a series.”

“ _Murder on the Hogwarts Express_ , _And Then There Were Grims_ , and _Death on the Knarl_?” Harry lifted his eyebrows, sipped his ale.

She rolled her eyes. “Not every mystery series is Agatha Christie, you berk. My new ones are middle-grade cosies, not children’s. Has Al forced you to read the first one yet? It’s set at Hogwarts, with a recurring detective; Kalla Penumbra, an eleven-year-old half-blood witch with a Muggle mother and pure-blood father. I’m having her grow up through the series but I expect I’ll continue it on after she finishes school.”

“I’m sure you’ll have lots of material to pull from once Rose gets to Hogwarts,” he observed, smirking.

“Merlin, help us,” Hermione said. “Some days I wonder what Ron and I’ve released into the world. She’s the worst of both of us—endlessly curious and rarely remembers the common sense required to keep herself out of trouble.”

“Something I was forcefully reminded of last time I minded her. She and Albus ended up subscribing to a year of _Ars Alchemica_ under my Gringotts account.”

“I did offer to pay you back for that,” Hermione said, laughing.

Harry shrugged. “Ms Danger’s into it now that she and Snape’s portrait spent an afternoon reading it together. I couldn’t possibly take it away from her.”

“I notice Albus himself didn’t bother reading it once it came in?”

Harry gave her a look he hoped said, _‘Are you kidding?’_

Hermione laughed, her eyes closing and her braids falling all over her face. It was moments like this, when she really allowed herself to be free, that Harry could see exactly why Ron fell in love with her all those years ago.

“Have you heard anything from the ICW?” asked Harry, after they’d giggled enough. “It’s been nearly a week since we visited, and I find it really hard to believe that they just decided to let the Queen’s dismissal go.”

Hermione made a disgusted face. “I am so glad I wasn’t at that tragic representation of human error. I honestly have second-hand embarrassment for all of you who went.” She caught Harry’s look and sighed. “All right, I was deflecting a little bit. I’ve…been contracted by the ICW. To develop a global _Obliviate_ spell that will remove Atlantis from all Muggles’ minds—without Atlantis’s cooperation.”

“You’ve _what_?” Harry said, leaning away from her in shock. He nearly upset his ale, only managing to save it at the last minute.

“I know, I _know_ ,” Hermione said. She pursed her lips, cast a privacy spell over their table. “The Ministry tied my hands—technically, since I’ve remained on call for the Department of Mysteries, they can reactivate my contract for ‘emergency situations’ and they _know_ I’m a memory charms expert. I had to do it or risk my job…and my pension. And, strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to tell anyone about it.”

“They’re doing it in _secret_?”

She nodded. “I’ve been added to a task force of about twenty other magical theory experts from around the world. Saul Croaker’s in with me, which is a really lovely learning opportunity, but I _hate_ it.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I really, really don’t think we should do it,” she admitted, biting her lip.

Harry leant forward. “Is it even necessary? What are your parents saying?”

“Nothing!” she said. “Mum and Dad say things have pretty much returned to normal in the Muggle world. People all think it’s really weird, and there are some fringe groups convinced it’s one paranormal thing or another, but for the most part, they’re all happy to believe it was a tectonic plate shift.”

Harry nodded. That was the impression he and Dudley had, too—despite Harry’s unending unease. “So why bother with the _Obliviate_?”

“Well,” she said. “I have a theory on that…funnily enough, from all the research I’ve been doing on pure-blood home life for the Kalla Penumbra books.”

He sipped his ale, lifted his eyebrows for her to continue.

“It’s the Statute of Secrecy,” she said. “It doesn’t mean the same thing to them as it does to us.”

“Duh,” he said. “We have Muggle families.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not because of that. There does seem to be a genuine feeling of… _terror_ in regards to the Statute, with children. The only thing I can compare it to is parents telling kids not to take sweets from strangers—and this really alarming, almost damned feeling you get near a stranger after your parents first tell you.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Harry said.

“Oh, right,” Hermione said, frowning.

She didn’t bother to apologise for bringing it up so carelessly anymore; they were both too grown to be bothered by such insignificant things as the Dursleys-senior anymore.

“Well, I don’t know then,” Hermione continued, chewing her lip. “I just remember, when I was little, my parents gave me a password and said never let anyone ever take me anywhere unless they told me the password. Before that moment, I was a child, carefree. After that, I saw monsters around every corner. Even the postman was cause for alarm. I think the Statute is like that to magical children.”

Harry sat back. “I can understand that. Really. But what I don’t get is the ICW trying to overcompensate for a potential breach by doing a global fucking _Obliviate_. It’s _madness_. And…it seems kinda stupid anyway, right? What do they do if the Queen just goes on telly and does some magic for everyone? Another _Obliviate_? And then another? Maybe just do one a day, just to be sure? Atlantis isn’t part of the ICW and I don’t think they’re going to bother upholding the Statute, no matter what we do.”

“I know. I think we should just let it go,” said Hermione. “But the ICW’s committed to this path, and I’ve got to help them do it.”

Harry sighed, feeling profoundly frustrated. He felt like this was just going to make it all worse. Somehow. He didn’t know quite how yet, but he knew it would.

“It just seems really stupid to be _that_ afraid of Muggles,” he said, remembering his conversation with Malfoy. He knew his own anxiety was illogical. “I mean, we have magic.”

“So did all the witches in the dark ages, and not all of them made it out alive,” Hermione reminded him with a raised eyebrow. “But I will grant that even magical society has matured since then. It’s standard for all magic-users to have their own wand now, for example. Human civilisation didn’t really accumulate enough distributed wealth to allow for that until a hundred years ago or so. Even in the 1800s, many families shared one or two wands among themselves.”

Now that surprised Harry. “Maybe I should be a paranoid pure-blood,” he said with a wry laugh. “I’ve gotta admit, I’ve been feeling kinda jumpy. Which is ridiculous, I _know_ , because everything’s basically fine…but the hair on the back of my neck literally stands on end sometimes. Am I going mad?”

She bit her lip. “Something does feel…wrong lately,” she admitted. “But I don’t know that I can pinpoint it to Atlantis. I started having really strange dreams earlier this summer. I didn’t want to scare you or Ron with them, but sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and be paralysed, and I’d feel like people were watching me.”

Harry leant forward. “You were being watched? I’ve felt like that for a few weeks now.”

She nodded. “It was sleep paralysis—a Muggle term—but no one knows what causes it and it just felt so…so…unnatural. I asked my parents about it, but they didn’t remember anything from school that I didn’t find on the internet, and they’ve never experienced it themselves.”

That sounded incredibly terrifying to Harry. And now he finally noticed the dark circles beneath Hermione’s eyes. Dark circles that must’ve been there for quite some time, slowly deepening, a bit at a time, so gradual that he didn’t notice until now. It was a shock now, when he finally saw it, and remembered how bright Hermione’s eyes had always been before, even after studying for NEWTs.

Abruptly, Hermione sighed. “But don’t worry about me. I’m just under a lot of pressure with this—” she grimaced, “stupid, _stupid_ global _Obliviate_.”

“How close are you to finishing the spell?” he asked.

She laughed. “Not close enough. Not nearly close enough, but they’re going to try it in a week, anyway. The rest of you will be invited to that ICW meeting, I’m sure.”

Harry frowned. “It wouldn’t, like, hurt them if it doesn’t work, would it?”

“...It shouldn’t,” Hermione said, though she still didn’t look happy. “We’re basing it off that city-wide _Obliviate_ New York City did during Grindelwald’s rise. It’s just that expanding the scope of a spell is logarithmic, not algebraic. It doesn’t always work in a predictable fashion. And honestly, I’m not totally convinced the spell worked correctly _then_ , either. And they still won’t allow us to put in an offering to magic!”

Harry finished off his ale, staring down into the empty bottom of the glass like some whinging love song. “You read Ginny’s report in the paper, right? What if Queen Sostrate is right, and we need them for some reason?”

“Like what?” asked Hermione.

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. These weird feelings we’ve been having. I might be the type to have weird feelings, but _you_ certainly aren’t. There’s got to be something to that.”

She frowned. “It _is_ odd we’re both having ‘feelings’ at the same time.”

They pondered this for several minutes, but neither of them could come up with anything to add, so Harry just sighed, and said, “I don’t like this. It’s 2013. We should’ve become at least as logical as Muggles, by now.”

Hermione smirked. “I doubt I’ll live to see that.”

Harry grinned back. “How’s Ron taking it?”

Her lips twitched. “He’s found a way to deal with it.”

He looked at her askance. “Do I want to know?”

“No, probably not,” she said, laughing.

Harry grinned at her, settled in for another round. He changed the subject to the kids and the upcoming Halloween get-together they always did at Molly and Arthur’s.

For a time, he let himself feel like everything was normal.

*


	7. Chapter 7

“The fairies are weird this week, aren’t they?” Harry said to Millicent the morning the students were to arrive.

She was his favourite Slytherin, being the lead DADA instructor. On a base level, Harry felt they were very compatible. If only she weren’t shagging Dudley (gag) and Harry weren’t shagging…well, actually he didn’t have much of a preference, but he hadn’t shagged anyone since Justin Finch-Fletchley had broken it off with him. ‘Too dramatic,’ Justin had said. Fucking Hufflepuffs.

Millicent gave him an annoyed look. “Fairies hibernate in the fall and spring, stupid. They don’t like mild weather.”

Harry scrunched his nose. “I definitely saw some last night. And last Thursday, too, when I went to talk to Malfoy about Atlantis.”

“You talked to Draco?” she asked.

“Why not? He’s the Atlantis expert, isn’t he? Which, by the way, it’s really odd to find myself enjoying Malfoy’s company lately, but I like having someone who has some actual insight. It’s a refreshing change.”

Millicent shrugged, forked another bite of baked ham into her mouth. Dudley had got her on the Keto diet thing, too. She had a whole plate of eggs and ham with a respectable green salad on the side. For breakfast. Meanwhile, Harry was not giving up his hotcakes and sausage in any lifetime soon.

“Didn’t think you liked him,” Millicent said. “You just stare at him with this dour look whenever we’re in staff meetings. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t try to kill one another in Atlantis, while you were safe from British legal reach.”

“Dour?” said Harry. “I think you mean annoyed.”

“Annoyed can be dour,” she said, pointing the tines of her fork directly at his chest. “And he’s been tonnes less annoying than he was when we were all at school—I guess house arrest can do that, even for a Malfoy. Barely even makes a handful of snide remarks through the course of a conversation. What have you got to be annoyed about? You didn’t spend seven years in a common room with him.”

“Besides his continued existence?” Harry wanted to clarify.

She rolled her eyes. “Please. You’d be bored to death. You certainly were before Minerva hired him on. I don’t believe your protestations for even a second. And you just said you’re enjoying his company.”

“Yeah, but that’s diff—”

At that moment, the post owls swooped in with the mail, including Harry’s subscription to the _Prophet_ , which he hated, but kept abreast of anyway just to make sure no one tried to libel him too badly.

Some libel was to be expected in the wizarding world, Harry had come to accept.

He glanced at the front page but there wasn’t anything of interest in it this morning. Since Ginny’s write-up of their diplomatic visit, there hadn’t been a whisper of the island. It was as if Atlantis was already old news. Likely, it would pick up again in the summer when people were planning their holidays, but Harry suspected no one in wizarding Britain would care at all as long as the people like him found a way to keep the Statute of Secrecy in place.

Which was again becoming more and more tenuous as the days went by—despite the _Prophet_ not covering it.

Dudley strolled in then, a bit sweaty from his sprint up to Hogwarts from his three-bedroom cottage in Hogsmeade. Why he needed three bedrooms in Hogsmeade as a single Muggle, Harry didn’t know. Why he sprinted from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts every morning during the school year, Harry also didn’t know. He suspected it had something to do with Millicent and wishful thinking.

“Morning, cuz.”

“Please don’t,” Harry said for the nth time.

Dudley just grinned at him and started loading up a plate with eggs and sliced turkey. “Ready for a new year? Did our second years send their assignments in on time?”

“All but the Gryffindors,” said Harry, frowning. The little bastards always played fast and loose with him, thinking he’d go easy on students in his old house. They were always disappointed.

“I’m surprised the Slytherins and Ravenclaws managed to write anything up at all, given how short our trip was cut, but every one of them managed to pull something relevant from the experience and write twelve inches on it. Ms Prance had a number of things to say on the resiliency of feather headdresses during magically-induced sonic booms. I’ve done the initial read through and sent them all up to your office. You think you’ll have time to mark them before their first class?”

Dudley forked a piece of turkey in his mouth and chewed, swallowing quickly. “They’re on Tuesday right? Yeah, I can get that done.”

Harry nodded. The second batch of post owls arrived, carrying the deliveries from Muggle areas and further wizarding locales. The _Guardian_ landed just by the coffee carafe, tied nicely with string. Despite its rolled-up state, Harry could see just one thing, the headline:

**_Number 10 confirms: new “Atlantis” island is inhabited!_   
**

“Ah, fuck,” Harry whispered, feeling his heart jump right into his throat and settle there. “She talked to them.”

He swallowed heavily, took the newspaper before Dudley could get to it, and unrolled it. His body tensed from the first word and didn’t relax. It was all so innocuous, so _not-saying-magic_ , that he found himself thinking it scared him more than if London Muggles had straight up reported how to get into Diagon Alley.

And why was he so scared?

He’d grown up with Muggles. His own Muggle cousin sat right next to him at the Hogwarts Head Table and had been his teaching partner all eleven years Harry had been on as the Muggle Immersion instructor.

Muggles weren’t inherently scary people. They weren’t vicious beasts like Death Eaters would’ve had anyone thinking. They were normal; they were people. They weren’t monsters.

So why did Harry feel so trapped? Why did he feel constantly watched?

The Great Hall doors opened again and Malfoy, the latest of all late Slytherins, came in, and even from this distance, Harry could tell his mind was far away. He made his way up to the breakfast table as if in a daze, took the remaining seat across from Harry. He nodded a greeting; their eyes met, Malfoy’s a thousand-yard stare.

The air was tense as other Muggle-born and half-blood staff opened their own Muggle papers, and word slowly, quietly made its way around the table. Somehow, Harry knew Malfoy had already seen this morning’s Muggle headline.

A strange exception to the pure-blood rule: Malfoy took care to _know thine enemy_. He read the _Times_ , quite possibly the _Telegraph,_ too.

That day passed in a strange, echoing blur, like being underwater for a long period of time and somehow learning to breathe the water just enough to survive; Harry felt weighted-down, and his mind was almost drowsy in its slowness, but he went about his day anyway, finalising lesson plans and prepping his and Dudley’s classroom. Dudley helped where he could, but despite being built like a Beater, he didn’t have magic, and his thoughts, too, were far away.

When the sun finally started setting, Harry knew the students would soon arrive. The train was set to the astronomical clock and always managed to get them to Hogsmeade Station at the stroke of nautical twilight.

Harry found himself back in the Great Hall without really knowing how he’d got there. The Head Table was back in its academic year location, looking out on the sea of house tables waiting to be filled. The benches and tabletops were shiny from years of use, and the candlelight glimmered against their surfaces like the fairies he’d seen outside Malfoy’s tower window. Fairies that should’ve been hibernating, according to their lead DADA professor. Again, Harry’s stomach tightened, and he wondered when he’d become such a paranoid prat.

He felt like he’d jump at his own shadow tonight.

The older years arrived at the castle, all loud, jubilant voices and shrieking laughter. This somehow settled Harry’s frayed nerves in the way that being around other people, regardless of how little they could help you, made you less afraid of the dark.

The chair to his left pulled out with a dragging screech, barely audible above the din of student voices. Malfoy slid into the chair, pulled it up to the table.

“What are the Muggles _really_ thinking today?” he asked, _sotto voce_.

“How the fuck should I know?” Harry murmured in return, taking care not to move his lips enough for the more industrious students to pick out his words.

Malfoy shrugged, poured himself a cup of tea and masterfully palmed a finger of brandy into it without any of the students or other staff being the wiser.

“Muggle Immersion teacher,” Malfoy reminded him, sipping his brandied tea. “Seemed like the person to ask.”

Harry ignored the dig. “They still haven’t said anything definitive. Papers seem to be hinting towards some odd natural phenomena but are refusing to speculate on what. But you could’ve found all this yourself, in the Muggle papers _I know you subscribe to_.”

Harry gave him a pointed look.

“Why do you think no one’s made the connection yet?” Malfoy asked, ignoring the last bit. Harry had his full attention now.

“Fake news reporting is regarded as slightly more uncultured in the Muggle world than here. They aren’t keen to publish something that turns out to not be true and risk looking like the _Daily Mirror_.”

“The _Mirror_? That rag? I don’t read that one.”

“The _Mirror_ says it was aliens. UFOs.”

“Whats?” Malfoy asked.

“Like, hypothesised people from other planets. And UFOs are their, er, flying machines to get from their planet to ours.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “What hogwash. That’s why I don’t subscribe to the _Mirror,_ even for studying Muggles. But,” and here his voice softened further and he kept his eyes focused on the students filing in, “what really interests me is why the Muggles’ own governments haven’t released the information. We know enough major countries have met with her by now to know.”

Harry nodded. He’d been wondering the same.

“Muggle governments already know about us,” Harry reminded him. “We have a liaison with the Prime Minister, remember?”

Malfoy shrugged. “But did their militaries know?”

Harry didn’t have an answer for that.

It was weird sitting here with Malfoy on the first day of his first term at Hogwarts, chatting about the impending doom of all magical cultures. But no one else wanted to chat about it. People were tense, but no one, Harry could tell, had the same sense of eeriness that he did. No one else felt like all of their futures were unraveling all at once, and even the Oracle Cassandra wouldn’t be able to find them a path forward again. No one else but Malfoy.

Here Harry was, possibly staring down at the end of his world as he knew it. With only _Malfoy_ really getting it. It was both troubling and annoying.

Hagrid brought the first years in. Flitwick stood to sort them, and even that passed in the same drowsy blur as the rest of the day. When all the new first years were sorted, Minerva stood to welcome in the year. She introduced Malfoy and the new subject he’d be teaching, and how relevant it was to recent events and therefore everyone with space in their schedule should avail themselves of this opportunity, and so on. Harry didn’t know why she bothered; Malfoy’s class was bound to be a hit anyway, just for sheer coolness factor.

Malfoy stood and nodded his thanks at the welcome, then returned stiffly to his seat. Harry watched his hands stiffen by his plate. First-week nerves. Harry had had those, too. But he wasn’t convinced that was what made Malfoy nervous.

*

Draco’s first-ever class as a Hogwarts professor was a mix of sixth-year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Because, despite hiring him on, McGonagall obviously hated him. Either that or she found his misery entertaining. Given her years of working with Pansy, Adrian, and Millicent, Draco was unsurprised. Schadenfreude was their permanent emotional state, and it was no surprise it seemed to have rubbed off on the Headmistress.

More of a surprise was how Adrian Pucey had become the Reading, Writing, & Critical Thinking teacher.

No, that wasn’t fair. Pucey had always been a good Slytherin about helping Greg and Vince with their essays when Draco didn’t feel like it. But he’d certainly acted like a moron every other minute of the day.

Despite the little sixth-year shits already fighting with one another, Draco was not afraid of teaching. He’d always done well with public speaking, especially persuasive speech, and teaching was no different. But his mind was drifting to other current events, and he had to keep pulling his focus back where it belonged.

“Welcome to Ancient Magical Cultures and Casting,” Draco said.

He waited for the last few Gryffindor students to quiet down. They noticed him staring at them, his eyebrow raised, and their faces flushed. They shut their mouths and Draco smiled blandly. He flicked his wand and sent copies of the syllabus zooming to each desk.

“This is the first instance of AMCC, so you’re something of my test subjects. I’ve structured the syllabus by region rather than chronologically, as you’ll find that cultures and their methods of spell casting were derivative. For example, we’ll talk about the similarities among Greek, Phoenician, and Atlantean schools of magic—and yes, I’ve reordered the lesson plans, given recent events, to cover Atlantis first.”

Even the Slytherins looked excited by this news.

“I plan to teach one week of culture, followed by a corresponding week of selected spells from that culture. You’ll learn everything from Tang Dynasty teacup washing spells to Incan llama-shearing spells. Not everything will be useful to your daily lives, as Charms is, but I think you’ll find them all interesting, and it will further showcase the cultures we’re studying and their lifestyles. Stick around for seventh year, and we’ll even get into Viking marriage bonds and Egyptian mummification rituals.”

“Woah!” Fergus McTavish exclaimed. “That’s killer.”

“Literally,” one of his fellow Gryffindors muttered, to much guffawing.

Draco rolled his eyes. “All right, let’s get started. There’s no set text for this class, but we’ll be doing weekly readings. This week, you’re reading two selections from Plato’s Socratic Dialogues _Timaeus_ and _Critias_.”

He sent those zooming out to the students, and when no one immediately started groaning, got the worrying sensation that his first class was going well. That could only mean one thing—it could (likely would) get worse.

“Let’s start with a brief history of the region.”

He tapped his wand to the blackboard and a sketch of the Mediterranean, pre-antiquity, drew itself out.

“Here we have the Mediterranean roughly the time that Atlantis disappeared. Doesn’t look like much, does it? As you can see, there were no countries, no city-states, not even any tribes to speak of. We have the beginnings of the Holocene Extinction—the sixth extinction on our planet and the first attributed to humans. Most of us were using arrowheads and spears to hunt and freezing to death every winter. Though there’s not much of a civilisation to speak of, in our modern views, there was enough human activity to drive some species towards extinction. How, then, did a civilisation like Atlantis not only form, but thrive, all by itself, when everyone else was still shitting in the woods? Well, like everything interesting in life, it begins with gold and magic.”

He glanced out at his sea of students and found, to his satisfaction, that they were listening raptly.

_Suck it, Minister Yogg,_ he thought smugly. _You thought you’d have a laugh extending my mother’s house arrest and putting my Father’s community service on the wireless every week for everyone to chuckle at, and we’d all just sit back and take it. You don’t know Malfoys. We will rise up and take our places in society again. Starting with a sea of school children who love my class. Fuck you._

*

As Draco suspected, his mother was quietly losing her shit all alone in the Manor while Draco’s father spent his days digging through cursed Gameboys.

He took the letter that had arrived from her at dinner and absconded to the library. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen here of all places, but it was the first time he’d entered the library since he was studying for the NEWT exams that never came in seventh year. Madam Pince was still here, still bitter about the devilish wizard who’d stolen her heart and her own personal first edition set of Gorebrinks’ _The Magic of Indexing and Sorting: Chronological, Alphabetical, Mathematical, and Other Methods_.

That was an early practice of his Legilimency skills that he was still regretting. The folly of youth.

Madam Pince gave him a tight smile as he neared her desk and he returned it.

“Draco,” she murmured, barely audible. “Good to see you back.”

His heart fluttered oddly.

The staff had not been un-cordial to him, but beyond his old friends from Slytherin—and Pansy especially—no one had said they were happy he was here. Hearing it from Madam Pince was an unexpected pleasure, a sudden release of tension he hadn’t even realised he was carrying around until it fell away.

In his school years, he’d never attracted the same degree of her animosity that others in his house did. Many an evening, he’d woken from a light hand on his shoulder to find Madam Pince leaning over him in a dark library with just a _Lumos_ at the tip of her wand to light the room.  
 _  
‘You’ve fallen asleep again, Mr Malfoy,’_ she’d always say, and Draco would pull himself up straight, apologise perfunctorily, and make a hasty retreat. She’d never yelled at him, but he’d hardly thought she’d be glad to see him back at Hogwarts after twelve years gone.

“Thank you, Madam Pince, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” he replied, the words coming automatically to his lips.

But as he gave her a nod and continued onto the Restricted Section, that fist that had been squeezing his heart since the moment his offer letter had arrived from Headmistress McGonagall loosened just a fraction. Someone besides his friends, and McGonagall and her frustratingly easy belief in nonsense like redemption, was pleased he was here.

Well, actually, now that Draco thought of it—and adding the students from all his classes so far—pretty much everyone, even Potter, seemed to accept his presence by now. Maybe he was being prematurely paranoid. Which, he thought, was pretty fair given the situation his family was in. He had a son to protect, after all.

Draco found a reading chair in the far corner of the Restricted Section, well away from the possibility of upper-year students with questionable passes, and unfolded the letter.

_My dearest Draco,_

_Enclosed are the books you requested from the Manor library—as well as the second Kalla Penumbra book Scorpius requested in his own letter to your father. I admit myself curious as to your renewed interest in ancient Mind Magics. You seemed so set against them after that unfortunate business with your Aunt Bella._

_I’m also enclosing a snip from this morning’s_ Prophet _, which I’m certain you’ve not yet read. I understand your aversion to “the staggering, relentless bad news in the world today,” but I think you’ll be interested in this._

_Your father and I are looking forward to seeing you, Scorpius, and Astoria for brunch on Sunday. Your father’s recently found an interesting assortment of discarded magical items while performing his service for the Ministry. Perhaps you can take a look this weekend._

_All my love,  
Mother_

Draco folded the letter up, frowning. He slipped the newspaper clipping out and skimmed the article. It wasn’t much—just a brief little human interest story on a Muggle-born who’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to create a magical version of the Muggle internet.

But Draco was disappointed in himself that it had taken his mother sending a news clipping for him to piece it together.

It certainly looked like the ICW was going to _Obliviate_ the Muggles, after all—and Mother had figured it out. And because Mother had a mind like a Basilisk, she’d also figured out it wouldn’t work.

Muggles had the internet, after all, and Draco had spent enough time in Muggleland to know the internet never forgot.

That was worrying. Even more worrying was that the ICW had neglected to share this news with the rest of the task force. Draco wondered if Potter knew.

Granger, Draco was certain, absolutely did. That didn’t explain how Mother had pieced it together, though—other than the fact that the ICW making a big stink about the Statute at the meeting with Queen Sostrate and then falling into radio silence after Weaslette’s one article, was obvious enough.

Draco frowned, annoyed with himself. He’d been fucking around, distracted by teaching classes and reading all of Granger’s (extensive) backlist to his son. How had that woman managed to put out thirty-four novel-length middle-grade books in two years?

But the most worrying was Father. What had he found? And what on earth was so important that he’d risked his parole to bring it home? This was exactly the kind of shady slip-up that cunt Minister Yogg was hoping for. And if Lucius had risked it, it had to be important.

Draco needed to know what could be worth such a big risk.

*

Draco, Scorpius, and the ex-wife more often on Narcissa’s good side than Draco himself, arrived promptly at ten on Sunday for brunch. Scorpius, being a child of seven, was still in love with grandparents and adults in general, so long as they paid attention to him. He rushed out of the Floo and into Narcissa’s arms before he’d even been dusted off.

Draco’s mother did not scold him, despite the butter-yellow day robes she was wearing. She bent to wrap Scorpius in a hug, kissed both his cheeks, and the spelled her robes clean without a word. Draco had not got anywhere near that degree of leniency as a child.

“Draco, darling,” Mum said, sweeping over to him and giving him the same two kisses.

Narcissa’s two lavender-spotted Dalmatians sat patiently waiting, tails wagging at speed against the floor as they waited for their turn.

“Coco!” Scorpius shrieked, pouncing on the first. “Vivienne!”

Astoria was received next, while Lucius held his hand out for Draco, looking very confident and composed for a man who’d dragged their entire family through hell—physically, mentally, spiritually, financially, and reputationally—and was currently serving the most useless and public-facing community service magical Britain had ever seen.

“Father,” said Draco. “You’re looking well.”

“As well as I was last week, I’m sure. It does me good to get out of the house.”

They both glanced at Narcissa, who was chatting merrily with Astoria, as if her ex-daughter-in-law were her only lifeline. She probably was; she was certainly the only woman Narcissa spoke to with any regularity. There were times Draco thought his mother had received the worst punishment of them all. Fifteen years of house arrest, save for one supervised outing per year—to see her parole officer. It had begun with just five years—only one more than Draco’s—but when Minister Yogg came into office, he extended all War sentences still being served. Draco had escaped further incarceration by mere days. The Minister’s tenure began the Monday after Draco’s house arrest ended.

Lucius’s ten years of house arrest had been increased to fifteen, broken up by his forty hours per week of community service for the Ministry. The same sentence length as Narcissa’s, but Lucius got to walk through London every week. He got to stop at Gringotts during his break, or even have lunch at one of the cafés in Diagon.

But Draco’s mother, who’d done nothing—who’d never taken the Mark, never hurt anyone, just tried to keep her family safe—was confined to the Manor grounds for a decade and a half. Even Potter’s testimony hadn’t saved her from it.

Draco thought it inhumane, but at least they were free of Azkaban. And free of Azkaban, he could work to save his family's reputation, to ease Scorpius's way in the world.

Draco had received only five years of house arrest, given his youth. He’d fucked off for the next seven after realising that five years wasn’t long enough for the people of Britain to let him walk through Diagon Alley unmolested. Twelve had just about done it.

Which brought them to today, this weekly brunch, and Father up to something that would undoubtedly get them all screwed over for another fifteen years. Lucius had never been _good_ at the gambling he did.

“The elves have prepared a buffet,” said Lucius. “Shall we adjourn to the breakfast room?”

“Oh, I can smell the Eggs Benedict from here,” Astoria said happily. “Your elf, Twerky, really makes the best hollandaise in all of England. I dream of them each Sunday night.”

Narcissa laughed happily. “Oh, I could tell you liked them. I have her make it for you each week to ensure you always return, my dear. We’re always happy to have you join us.”

_Despite our son having divorced you for no reason we can comprehend,_ always remained unspoken.

Brunch progressed in typical fashion. Draco enjoyed being with his family. His parents had always been demonstrative with him, and they were the same with Scorpius, if not more so. Having come as close as Malfoys ever did to rock-bottom had shaken them loose a bit. They’d found Astoria too modern at first, but forced isolation from the rest of the world made strange bedfellows and it had not taken long for them to warm to her.

The dogs settled in their matching lavender divan beds beneath the windows, overlooking the hillside. The fields in the distance were being harvested, and the green pastureland Draco always remembered from his childhood was replaced with browns and oranges.

But he’d always liked October, and as they nibbled at their plates, and sipped at their mimosas, the fire kept their skin warm and their thoughts light. It was a nice reprieve.

Draco felt the anxiety of the past weeks of lesson planning, of teaching his first classes, of the _Incident in the Atlantic_ , begin to drain away as Narcissa started in on a story of her adventures in learning to weave. No doubt, there would be a 12’x10’ family tapestry in the east drawing room by the month’s end.

During her tenure confined to the grounds, she’d written two novels; become fluent in Mandarin; maintained a daily pilates routine; purchased a Floo subscription to the Wimbourne Wasps’ full season live and subsequently joined (and won, twice) a fantasy Quidditch league; bred, trained, and sold three generations of rare-coloured magical Dalmatians; started a successful vineyard in the upper forty; read and catalogued the entire Manor library; renovated the dungeons into a sparkling exercise room and expanded wine cellar; been hired on as the _Daily Prophet_ ’s (anonymous) Agony Aunt; invested in Muggle stocks and doubled their liquid assets; purchased a 27” Retina Display Apple iMac; figured out how to access the internet through magic and one of their tenant’s WiFi; and started a finance blog, with a modest income through advertising.

Learning to weave was hardly a difficult task, comparatively.

“I’ll show you, if you like,” Narcissa was saying to Astoria.

“Absolutely, I must see it,” said Astoria.

Narcissa beamed. “It’s in the drawing room. Draco, won’t you come look, too?”

And so they pushed back from the table, took their glasses, and followed Narcissa into the drawing room. There, hanging on the north wall where a truly ugly credenza from Draco’s great-great-grandmother Malfoy’s dowry had once sat, was a half-finished tapestry in golds and lilacs. The scene depicted two dryads frolicking in a forest clearing.

She was already ahead of schedule. Draco despaired of his mother running out of hobbies to take up before her sentence ended. But he supposed there was always carpentry.

“Mother,” Draco sighed. “What kind of ideas are you giving Scorpius?”

Narcissa’s laugh tinkled through the room. “I didn’t realise until I’d weaved down to their knees. I’ll unravel it and start again, but your father found it such a laugh when he came in, I had to save it to show you.”

The second dryad had three breasts. Three lovely, round, pert green breasts.

Someone pushed past Draco’s legs, and Scorpius was peering through before Draco could stop him.

“Woah! Do you think she got hit with a spell?” asked Scorpius. “Or does she just have three babies?”

Astoria covered her mouth, stared at Draco with sparkling eyes. He shrugged, having no idea what he was supposed to say. She was the free-spirited art teacher, after all. He was fine being the conservative historian.

Behind him, Lucius cleared his throat softly, and Draco raised an eyebrow at him.

“I wonder if you’d take a drink with me, Draco,” he said.

Draco followed him into Lucius’s study, took a seat on the warm leather couch, sighing a bit at how happily full he was. His father stopped at the sideboard and poured them both a finger of scotch. Draco lifted an eyebrow. A bit early for all that.

“How are your classes?” asked Lucius.

“I’m enjoying it more than I expected,” Draco admitted. “The students are surprisingly eager to learn about Gallic contraception spells and Peruvian weaving rituals. It’s…gratifying.”

Lucius smirked. “Your revenge turned out to be less revenge and more personal gain. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Draco laughed. “I prefer when it’s both. And it is both—even more so now that my expertise is suddenly so useful.”

Lucius sipped from his glass, nodded. His eyes were sharp.

“And your days?” Draco asked. “Are you finding them fulfilling?”

As humiliating as it was to dig through Arthur Weasley’s and the Muggle Artefacts Department’s detritus and conduct weekly press conferences on useless findings—solely for Lucius’s continued degradation—he suspected his father was finding it more fulfilling than he would have found life in Azkaban.

“Counting down the days,” Lucius said.

Abruptly, Lucius stood. He walked around to his desk, bent down and retrieved a small wooden box. He brought the box back, sat down and passed it to Draco.

Cautiously, Draco lifted the lid. Inside, there was a generous application of wizarding space, and the box had been filled with dozens of Muggle items of varying sizes.

“You took these from the Ministry,” said Draco, still staring at them. He looked up. “You’re going to get us all arrested again.”

Lucius frowned. “I realise you have little regard for my decision-making skills, and frankly, I can agree, to a point. But this was a risk I felt necessary to take.”

“What were they charmed with?” Draco asked, gesturing to the Muggle items. “Are they dangerous?”

“In a sense,” said Lucius. He smiled, sharp white teeth slowly becoming visible. “They’re unused, untraceable Portkeys.”

“What?!”

Lucius’s smile morphed to a smirk. “Yes. The Muggle Artefacts Department has been so severely understaffed for so long that they’ve never even looked at most of the items they’ve confiscated or had turned in to them. I nearly went to Siberia the first time I came across one. Fortunately, I was wearing the signet ring and it shielded me. After that, I kept an eye out for more. And there _were_ more. Dozens more, as you can see.”

“Where do they go?” Draco asked, careful not to touch a single one now, though he was sure his father had set them all up with an activation word by now.

“Every continent, including Antarctica.” Lucius paused. “Well, I suppose none go to our newest continent.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. He could see now that there were little tags attached to each one, with locations written in his father’s careful block print. A small toy figurine on the top read: _Montjuic Castle NE corner courtyard, Barcelona, Spain_. “You and Mum only have _three years_ left in your sentences. What are you planning?”

“Nothing,” Lucius said. “But one must always be prepared. I want you to know where they are, in case…in case things ever go awry, which they very well might with the ICW putting its fingers into everything. You, Scorpius, and Astoria must take one—any of them—if you ever need to leave quickly.”

“Right, of course,” said Draco.

He closed the lid, passed it back to his father, and they moved onto lighter subjects, but Draco couldn’t help wondering what else Lucius had heard at the Ministry during his community service hours. Stealing Ministry property was a very large risk to take for a man so close to the end of his sentence.

Even Lucius, bad gambler that he was, wouldn’t have done that lightly.

*


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the ICW task force was brought into the Circle of Truth the morning they planned to cast the worldwide _Obliviate_ spell. Which, Draco thought, was cutting it a bit close. He had, naturally, not been consulted. For a literal Atlantis expert, he was being ignored quite a lot.

“Thing is,” Dudley said, pushing a crisp strip of bacon into his mouth, “only nutters think it’s magic. Literally, only nutters. For fuck’s sake, the travel agents have already created Atlantis packages for the summer.”

He chewed for a few minutes, took a drink of black coffee (he was not a fan of tea), and continued: “Even though Atlantis is inhabited, they’re all happy to believe it was a tectonic plate shift that unearthed a previously underwater island—the tsunami helped that, you know?—Portugal was soaked and there were about five hundred people killed along the south of France and Italy. A bunch in northern African countries, too, but somehow most of the tribal peoples there made a hasty trek inland the week before, for no explainable reason whatsoever, so there weren’t more than a handful killed there.”

“There was a tsunami?” Pansy asked.

Dudley gave her a blank look. “Pansy, you can’t be serious. It was humongous. Didn’t the _Prophet_ report on it?”

“No,” she said, looking shaken. “They didn’t say a thing.”

Pansy scrunched her eyebrows, staring down into her bowl of yoghurt and nuts as if it held all sorts of answers. “Why wouldn’t the _Prophet_ run that story? There are magical communities on those coasts!”

“Dunno,” said Dudley.

“It’s politics, of course, Pans,” said Potter, sliding into the chair next to Draco without a by-your-leave. “The Ministry wants us ignorant, as usual.”

Draco hummed in acknowledgement. The Ministry owned the _Prophet_ , whether people wanted to believe it or not.

“Oh, but Draco,” Pansy said, turning to him, “they’ve been doing so much better since all that silliness during our school years. I know you and Scorpius have been traipsing all over Greece for years, but it really has been better. This is an unsettling change.”

“I suppose she’s right,” Potter apparently felt compelled to add. “I take a subscription to keep an eye on the shit they report on me. They’ve been doing better—even covered the recent string of magical elections in the Middle East.”

“The Arab Spring?” Draco asked.

“That’s it,” Potter agreed.

Pansy nodded, sipped her peppermint tea. “It made the front page several times. It’s really unusual that something like a tsunami wouldn’t, especially one so near to magical communities. Harry, ask Ginny about that and report back.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “As you command.”

Draco had had just about enough of this sickening display of camaraderie between his lifelong best friend and Potter. He cleared his throat.

“We’ve a meeting at the Ministry this afternoon, so McGonagall’s cancelling classes. Keep an eye out for bored Slytherins, Pansy.”

“Merlin, what was I thinking accepting the Head job,” she muttered. “They’re wretched, evil little beasts.”

“Be grateful you don’t have the Gryffindors,” Potter said, casually bringing up a privacy spell around their end of the table so the students couldn’t overhear. “I’m giving the job up to Neville next year. I can’t bear listening to their tales of heartache and woe. And all the sodding scheduling. Ms Prance has a monthly spoken-word poetry slam, Mr Hutchins has started a petition for co-ed loos like the Hufflepuffs have got, and the seventh years are asking for GSCEs instead of NEWTs.”

Pansy shook her head. “Children really have no idea what it was like.” She brightened. “I wonder if Millicent will take the job next year.”

“Not likely,” Millicent called from several seats down, having—somehow—heard through Potter’s privacy spell. Draco smirked. That was just like her.

Potter nodded sagely. He glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. “Bugger it all, I’ve got to run or I’ll be late to the Ministry.” He grabbed an extra finger sandwich and stood. “Coming, Malfoy?”

Reluctantly, Draco stood. Pansy craned her neck to look up at him. “Are the ICW and the Ministry about to do something stupid that we should be prepared for?”

“Looks like it,” he said. “The ICW summoned us this morning…to a meeting in an hour.”

Pansy gave him a grim nod. “I hope it isn’t a disaster.”

*

Hermione was on a rampage the day the ICW summoned them all to a last-minute vote on the use of the global _Obliviate_. It was all a sham. Harry knew before he even sat down what the vote would be.

Hermione was standing, leant over her seat-back and glaring at all of them. “We’ve tested this spell to the greatest extent possible, but in _no situation_ has it performed optimally. Each group of our volunteer mice had at least one subject who remembered _something_. We had three test subjects at least in every continent, and the greatest success was with subjects in Western Europe. None of the Australian volunteer mice were fully _Obliviated_. Only half of those in the Americas were. This spell is unreliable and unsafe and we should be focusing our efforts on redirecting the narrative rather than spelling un-consenting Muggles all over the world.”

Herbert Kurzschluss rubbed his hands together like one of Hermione’s volunteer mice, smiling a bit at the over one hundred witches and wizards gathered again for this ridiculous task force.

 _Task farce_ , Harry mentally amended, pumping some over-brewed coffee from the carafe into his conjured, environmentally-friendly mug.

“Italy will not sit idly by while Muggles—and the Church!—rediscover the existence of magic!” a lovely witch yelled. “We remember what happens when they do!”

“And Spain!” another man yelled. “I’ve no wish to become part of a monarchy because Felipe suddenly realises he has a potential extra thirty thousand subjects! I’m a Catalan!”

“The _Obliviate_ works on Muggles,” the MACUSA rep said, rolling his eyes. “Just because it didn’t work on mice doesn’t mean it won’t work on Muggles, who are a completely different species. The spell is MFDA-approved, so it’s perfectly safe.”

“Are you quite sure it works, Mr Peterson?” Hermione asked, smiling in that way that Harry knew indicated a bloodbath was soon to follow.

Peterson looked around, reminding Harry distinctly of Zacharias Smith at his douchiest. “Do you see any Muggles here? They _don’t know about magic_ in the US!”

“I’m still Muggle,” Dudley spoke up.

Peterson waved a hand dismissively. “That’s England for you. They socialise everything from healthcare to magical knowledge.”

“ _Excuse me_ , Mr Peterson,“ Hermione began, “but the US seems to have the highest concentration of practicing Wiccans in the world, so I think you’ll forgive me if I doubt your spell fully took! There are obviously American Muggles in New England and the rest of the country who believe in _something_.”

“It’s nothing more than wish fulfilment,” Peterson dismissed. He narrowed his eyes. “And why is a woman with no connection to politics, academics, or foreign affairs even in this meeting? She’s a children’s book author! My wife reads them to our nine-year-old!”

Harry quickly retreated to a dark corner with his coffee, in no way wanting to be in Hermione’s sight line after that comment.

“I’m an Unspeakable, who is supposed to be enjoying a sabbatical,” Hermione grit out. “I specialise in Mind Magics and I can tell you with one hundred per-cent certainty this spell _will not take effect as you wish it to without a significant sacrifice to natural magic_.”

Peterson rolled his eyes as if this weren’t important at all, but did shut up, which proved Hermione had won that round.

“We should at least _try_ the spell,” Italy spoke up in the ensuing silence. “It can’t hurt. And if it erases it from most Muggles’ minds and not all of them, then that’s better than nothing. It’s a good start. We can worry about the others after. Maybe a second application of the spell?”

“There is one—additional—small concern there,” Malfoy spoke up.

Harry raised his eyebrows, took a sip from his rapidly cooling coffee. These environmentally-friendly conjured cups (“ConjureCups™ disappear into the void after use!”) had zero insulation. Malfoy was already sat at the table in his prescribed spot with his prescribed placard, twirling a quill between two fingers in the most boredly intricate fashion.

“Which is?” Peterson prompted, annoyed.

“The internet, obviously,” Malfoy drawled.

Harry snorted into his coffee, began coughing and possibly asphyxiating, but no one paid him any mind.

“They’ll have undoubtedly posted photos and stories on the internet by now.”

“How would they have even seen it?” asked a rep from Belize. “There are no Muggle airports there.”

“Photos were posted in major news outlets the first day,” said Harry. He was ignored.

“Flight paths do cross that area of the Atlantic, as I said last time we met,” Hermione growled. “And the Parrot AR Drone, a smartphone-controlled quadcopter for consumers, was released this year. Muggles can now send remote-operated cameras wherever they want to take photographs for them. I’m sure someone with enough money to blow on toys has already purchased and piloted one out there. Has anyone bothered to check with their Muggle Liaisons on this? Not to mention, _they will just discover Atlantis again_ when a cruise ship suddenly finds an entire island in its path.”

There was silence.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Peterson. “Our people use the internet, too, and we can discredit anyone who tries to make a fuss. We can ward Atlantis afterwards. We need to act, now. I call for a vote!”

“Only the president of the ICW can call for a vote, actually,” said Kurzschluss. He looked around at all the expectant faces, and said brightly: “I, as President of the ICW, call for a vote. All in favour of proceeding with the global _Obliviate_ to all Muggles not directly exposed to magic through family or politics?”

Hands went up all over the room.

Harry caught Hermione’s eye. She shook her head slowly, frustrated. They were clearly defeated.

“All opposed?”

Hermione’s hand shot up. Harry put his hand up, too, and was happy to see Malfoy raise his as well. Other than Dudley, there were only three or four other nays.

“Well, then!” said Kurzschluss. “Looks like we’re going ahead with the _Obliviate_. Let’s all give ourselves a pat on the back for a job well done. Congratulations to this task force for solving the problem of Atlantis!”

There was scattered applause that slowly gathered steam until nearly everyone was clapping. Hermione was pulling a desolate thousand-yard stare. Harry didn’t care as much about the _Obliviate_ as she did, but he still didn’t think it was a great idea. He’d seen how long it had taken to fix Hermione’s parents—and that was just a small, personal _Obliviate_. Harry didn’t know if the global _Obliviate_ would work or not, but he knew there would be no going back afterwards.

Something caught his eye and he turned his head. Malfoy was rubbing his temples, his head bent forward, his neck exposed. Harry stared, unable to look away. It was as if seeing Malfoy so unguarded for even a second made him an entirely different person—someone real and vulnerable. Someone Harry had forgotten existed since that moment they shared a fiery broom ride together. Malfoy was a real person, Harry realised; he’d always been one, but Harry had let himself forget.

A strange thrum of adrenaline coursed through Harry’s body, settling in his gut. There was something about the line of Draco’s neck as he sat there looking so exhausted, something oddly appealing. His profile was turned toward Harry, showing tense eyes and a tired mouth. Was this what Malfoy was like with his family? Harry swallowed heavily.

It was more than just obsession he had for Malfoy, wasn’t it? It was _desire_.

Harry set his tepid coffee back on the table. The ConjureCup™ disappeared, spilling half-drunk coffee all over the white catering tablecloth. Harry barely noticed it. All he could see was how captivating Malfoy was when he wasn’t aware of being looked at.

*

“What the bloody buggering fuck are you doing?”

Draco slowly closed his eyes, pulled his reading glasses from his face, and stared up at the painting above his fireplace. The specially painted library and lab combination he’d had made for Severus was finally occupied.

“Hello, Severus,” Draco sighed. “Finally decided to return to your own country? Run out of ancient potions books to read and fit queens to ogle?”

“Two of the Muggle representatives meeting with Queen Sostrate suddenly forgot why they were there yesterday afternoon. Mid-conversation.”

Draco grimaced, looked at his watch. Scorpius would be ‘helping’ Astoria with her Art Club this evening for at least another thirty minutes. Draco had hoped to spend those thirty minutes catching up on his mother’s latest blog post. He’d bought a laptop solely to keep up with them. He set the laptop aside, pushed it underneath the couch so no one would find it should he get a visitor.

“I voted against that,” Draco said.

“You _Obliviated Muggles worldwide_ ,” Severus hissed. The painter had done very well with anticipating Severus’s expressive range of fury.

“I most certainly did not. I was a useless addendum to a farce of a task force, whose opinions and expertise were discounted at every turn. You can blame the Americans; they recycled their city _Obliviate_ from the Grindelwald era and forced Granger et al. into performing it.”

“Merlin help you all,” Severus said, his eyes glittering. “The spell only worked on people currently on the island. And those it did—there have already been reported neurological damage: brain swelling, loss of hearing and other senses. The rest of the world just went mad—mass shootings all over, especially the US, that all started within minutes of the spell. Some people, instead of forgetting Atlantis, have forgotten their own names, their families, their careers.”

Draco pushed himself up. “You’re joking.”

Severus sneered. “When have you ever known me to _joke_? Where is your Muggle friend?”

“Dudley? Ask Potter. I don’t know.”

“I’ve already been by Potter’s. His room’s empty.”

Draco rubbed his eyes. He would need tea to get through this. “The Muggle-born contingent is going to revolt,” he muttered.

“That is the least of your worries,” Severus said. Draco saw him move closer to the front of his frame.

“Draco,” Severus said. Draco looked up. “You need the Muggles. You can’t let them forget Atlantis.”

Draco was immediately suspicious. “Why?”

Snape frowned. “You can’t do this by yourselves. The magical population, I mean. You will need Muggles for this.”

“For _what_ , Sev?” Draco snarled. “Why are you being so fucking circumspect? You’re not a spy anymore; you’re dead. I spend my days teaching Gryffindors and my evenings reading my seven-year-old Hermione Granger’s children’s books. I could seriously do with some direct communication right now.”

Severus looked, for the first time Draco had ever seen, conflicted. In fact, perhaps it was a defect in the painting because surely it couldn’t be an artefact of the man himself. “You should speak to Her Majesty again.”

“She’s not going to speak to us. The ICW and the Ministry pissed her off.”

“She’s speaking to many people from many countries every day,” Severus said. “I believe she will be willing to overlook one representative’s outburst in favour of getting yours…and Potter’s support.”

Draco snapped his head around. “Potter? What does he have to do with anything?”

Severus gave him a heavy-eyed look. “Be serious.”

“I am serious, I have no idea what you’re talking abo—”

There was a knock at the door. Draco sighed, shot Severus a glare, and stomped over to the door. He swung it open, already scowling, and then blinked when he realised who was on the other side.

“Potter? What do you want?”

“I just came from Hogsmeade,” Potter said, navigating easily under Draco’s arm resting on the doorjamb and coming inside. “I need a drink. _You’re_ going to need a drink.”

Draco huffed at the intrusion, closed the door and followed Potter back in. “The Muggles?” he asked.

Potter looked up, eyes wide and vivid. “You heard?”

Draco tipped his head towards the painting.

“Oh, Snape, hey. You been with the Queen? Does she know?”

“ _Does she know?_ She fucking knows, Potter,” said Severus. “We were meeting with a general from the Canadian Army when he suddenly forgot who he was and why he was there.”

Potter grimaced. “What a disaster. I was at Dudley’s watching the Man U match on his telly when my Aunt Petunia rang and asked him what he wanted for his birthday. His birthday’s in _June_.”

“It affected Petunia?” Severus asked. “You didn’t even add variables into the spell to ignore people who rightly knew of magic already? Are you all truly as stupid as you were in my Potions class?”

“Hermione tried to,” Potter insisted. “But she wasn’t confident in it, and she didn’t want to use it at all. She said it could be dangerous. And we’re not entirely sure Petunia’s thing was due to the spell because Dudley was fine. He’s worried she’s starting to lose her faculties a bit, but I don’t agree. I think it was the spell.”

“Experts in Mind Magics didn’t think it was safe, but the ICW used it anyway.”

“Blame the US,” Potter said.

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” said Severus. “It will screw you all equally.”

“Wouldn’t mind a bit of that right now,” Potter muttered, flopping desolately into one of the wingback chairs. “Might take the edge off.”

Draco heard it, and felt his cheeks heat with illicit knowledge. That was the last thing he needed to think about. He was still maintaining a twice-weekly wank-to-Potter schedule as it was, and only keeping it from multiplying through sheer bloodymindedness.

There was no saving this night.

Draco drafted a quick note to Astoria asking her to keep Scorpius for the night, folded up a crane, and sent it winging away. Then he poured himself a drink, and because he was a believer in misery having company, he poured Potter one, too. Then, Snape began talking again.

*


	9. Chapter 9

“Professor Potter,” said Gemma Lovecraft, during his fifth year Ravenclaw-Slytherin class. “Are you sure Muggles aren’t messengers of the Deep Ones? Because that’s what my mum says. And also that they’re going to feed us to the Shoggoths.”

“Your family is so weird, Gem,” Nikita Williams replied. “Muggles are just people without magic. As Professor Potter has been teaching us for, like, five years.”

Ms Lovecraft rolled her eyes at her BFF. “I know, but what if the Statute of Secrecy is like a spell over their minds, and now they’ve tried and failed to _Obliviate_ them, they’re all going to wake up from their lucid dreaming and realise that magical people make really excellent human sacrifices to the Old Gods.”

Harry’s face contorted oddly—something between a pleasant smile and a baffled grimace. “Ms Lovecraft, I would be really interested to see your home life.”

“Well, you’re welcome to dinner anytime, Professor,” she said. “Mum loves having company and Dad usually grills fresh octopus and lobster for Christmas if you want to come over then?”

“What if Gemma’s right, though?” asked Rocco Kilgore, a Slytherin, saving Harry from answering. “What if the Muggles _do_ want to kill us and squirt our arterial blood onto a sacred bonfire?”

“Muggles really aren’t into human sacrifice anymore,” Dudley said, perched on their shared desk and biting into a BBQ-flavoured ‘Keto fat bomb.’ “As a rule.”

“But Professor Dursley, what if they are _now_?” said Ms Lovecraft.

Rocco Kilgore added, “Are _you_ into human sacrifice now, Professor? Do you feel any different?”

“No, the Obliviation spell wasn’t designed to affect me, Mr Kilgore,” Dudley said, “as I’m close family to a wizard and was already fully aware of the magical world.”

“Who was it designed for then?”

“Other Muggles—ones who don’t know anything about the magical world, or don’t need to know about it.”

The children considered this. Then Henry Dearborn said, “Do _those_ Muggles want to sacrifice us?”

“Kids,” Harry said. Was he really having this conversation? “You just went to the Festival Fringe two months ago. And unlike the second years, you actually got to stay the whole day. And every summer before that, since you’ve been first years, I’ve taken you on school trips to immerse you in Muggle culture. During any of those times did any Muggle try to use your body for a human sacrifice?”

“That was _before_ the Obliviation, Professor Potter,” Gemma said. He could hear unvoiced the ‘duh’ underneath. “But the Obliviation could’ve jostled something in their brains and woken them up, as I said.”

Harry glanced at the clock, and then at Dudley, who shrugged. They had twenty minutes left of class, along with his standard issue Time-Turner the Ministry had signed out to him to handle multiple school trips in a single day.

“Do you want to go out and see what they’re thinking yourselves? Would it make you feel better?”

“Yes!” Mr Kilgore said.

“I dunno,” said Ms Lovecraft. “I really don’t think I’m old enough to be sacrificed yet.”

“I won’t let you be sacrificed,” Harry assured her.

It was the second week of October, a Friday, and there were sure to be some fall festival sorts of things going on. They could pop down to London, perhaps SoHo, and take a walk. He’d let the kids see that things were just as they were supposed to be, that Muggles weren’t acting any differently.

“All right, get your cloaks on and Transfigure them to the navy Muggle peacoat we studied in third year. We’ll Floo down to Diagon and then take a walk through London so you can all see for yourselves that the Muggles are still fine.”

They Floo’d from Harry’s office into the Leaky Cauldron. Hannah waved as Harry stepped out behind the last student.

“I didn’t know you had a school trip planned today, Harry,” she said. “Hi, Dudley. Anyone need a carry-out juice?”

Half the students scurried up to the counter, while Harry ordered a tea for himself. “This one’s unplanned,” he said. “The kids wanted to be sure the Muggles were still safe to be around after the Obliviation didn’t work.”

Hannah’s mouth firmed uncomfortably and she nodded. Moving to where only Harry could hear her, she said, “To be honest with you, things have been a little…odd. I went out to pick up some pots for Neville at Homebase and I got this really strange feeling. Couldn’t wait to get home again.”

“What do you mean?”

She expertly poured twelve juices into biodegradable disposable cups, taking care not to rouse suspicion as she flicked her wand beneath the counter and raised a light privacy spell around her, him, and Dudley.

“Nothing I could pinpoint. Nothing really specific in the papers that I saw while I was passing the news agent, nobody saying anything particular. They were just acting…differently. Everyone seemed to be on high alert. No one was at ease.”

“You can’t really blame them for that,” Harry said. “I mean, Atlantis showing up is weird even for us.”

“Although slightly more weird for us Muggles,” Dudley added pointedly. “Mum’s started in on the sherry.”

“That’s true,” Hannah allowed. “There are a number of Muggle militaries surrounding the island. The Muggle papers have reported a bit—ongoing talks—but no one’s said anything about magic yet. That queen must be keeping mum. And making sure everyone else on the island does, too.”

That surprised Harry. “She didn’t seem like she cared about keeping the Statute when we met with her.”

Hannah shrugged, topped off the juice cups with paper lids and paper straws, and sent them zooming out to the children. “Maybe it’s the Muggles keeping mum then. I dunno. I get a bit more interaction with them, being right in between our two worlds every day, but I still don’t know what they’re thinking—or what they know. Oh, Harry, I feel like we’re living in this…this liminal state. Not quite exposed, but definitely not hidden any longer.”

Harry was abruptly reminded of Hermione’s story about pure-bloods and the visceral fear of losing the Statute.

“I know the feeling,” he said, and meant it.

Just then, Ms Williams came up and asked him if they’d have time to stop at Snog to get a frozen yoghurt before returning to school. As if this was a joy outing and not a valuable learning experience.

“See you, Harry, see you, Dudley!” Hannah called, as they headed for the door leading out into wide, open London.

He threw a wave over his shoulder as he ushered the kids out. Despite Ms Williams’s prodding, Ms Lovecraft was noticeably anxious stepping out onto Charing Cross.

They crossed Trafalgar Square, all twenty of his students fixing hawk eyes on the crowd around it. The tourists snapping photos in front of Nelson’s Column appeared in good spirits. The British Muggles, hurriedly making their way to and from work looked generally displeased by the raucousness, but that was hardly unusual.

The kids were unusually quiet as they trooped along towards the park, and their unnatural hesitance to chatter about any and every little fucking thing set Harry’s teeth on edge. It was like yawning: because they felt uneasy, he felt uneasy, too.

Or, at least, that’s what Harry kept telling himself.

“All right, Harry?” Dudley whispered to him as they trailed their students down the Mall. “You look white as a sheet. Or even a ghost.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “The kids are being so weird,” he said. “Can’t help but get one of those spine-shivery feelings that they’ve got some sort of sixth sense. Like earthworms coming out everywhere before an earthquake.”

“Do magical people have sixth senses?” Dudley asked.

They walked along, dividing their attentions expertly between the twenty students and the low-voiced conversation they were having with one another. Dudley, still several inches taller than Harry, had slimmed down about his middle in recent years after his CrossFit trainer had got him on the Paleo, and then Keto, diets. Now there was hardly an ounce of fat on him, but he had shoulders as wide as an ox’s and Muggle women surreptitiously gave him a twice over as they passed.

“Just the ones with seer abilities,” Harry replied. “But none of these kids have even successfully predicted homework assignments before.”

“You’re getting yourself worked up because you’re freaked out, mate,” Dudley said as they reached St James Park. “I’m fairly sure Shoggoths don’t actually exist.”

“Maybe,” Harry allowed.

Ms Williams fairly dragged Ms Lovecraft, the tensest of the entire bunch, into the park, and the rest followed after.

They wandered through St James Park. Muggles strolled with friends, sat on benches chatting on their mobiles, and played in the grass. Despite it being only just ten on a weekday, the park was bustling.

Dudley inhaled deeply, letting it all out in a big sigh. “Smells so much different than the rest of London. Really fresh, you know? Amazing what a couple of trees can do for the air.”

“Smells better at Hogwarts,” Harry said.

“Don’t be a bore, Harry,” said Dudley, followed by a quick, “Oi! Peterson, get back on the path and quit faffing about! This isn’t a holiday!”

Mr Peterson slunk back from the lake and rejoined his posse of other abnormally brave Slytherins.

“Anyway,” Dudley continued. “What do you think’s got you so freaked? Surely not the Obliviation. It sucks, but it’s over. Now we can all forget about it…though, Mum’s still acting a bit odd. Maybe you’re right about it hitting her, too.”

“She okay?” Harry felt compelled to ask.

Dudley shrugged. “She said something super strange when I rang the other day. Said she finally remembered.”

Harry scrunched his nose. “That’s…the opposite of what the Obliviation spell was supposed to do.”

Dudley glanced at him. “A lot of people had weird symptoms for a few days after, Mum included. But most of them got better, remembered their lives again.”

Harry shook his head. “What a disaster.”

“Anyway,” Dudley said brightly, “what’s wrong with you? Did the spell hit wizards, too?”

“No, I feel…exposed,” Harry said. “Really antsy. I just want to grab Al and go hide in a bunker somewhere most days.”

Dudley gave him a sharp, blue-eyed stare. “You can’t really think us Muggles are going to try to kill you all.”

Harry returned his look. “Don’t you think your mum would vote for that if it came to it?”

Dudley grimaced. “She might, I don’t know. I think she’s stopped with the sherry, but she’s still been, I dunno…acting a bit like you, I guess. Jumping at shadows. Says she saw someone in her back garden, watching her, and had chills all down her back, but when she turned on the outside light, he was gone.”

“You think she’s got a creeper?” Harry asked, unwillingly concerned.

Unlike Dudley, Petunia had never made an effort to reconcile with Harry after the War ended and the Dursleys were released from their safe house. Neither had Vernon, of course, but a heart attack had taken him in 2000. Harry had gone to the funeral, stood in the very back, and said nothing to anyone except Dudley.

“Dunno, really,” Dudley said. “I changed all the locks on her doors and reinforced her windows and the garage door. Truthfully, I’ve been sleeping in her spare bedroom most nights since Atlantis, just to keep her from losing her mind, and I haven’t seen a thing.”

“So she’s imagining it,” Harry surmised. “Is she okay…mentally?”

Dudley frowned. “Harry, other than the weird birthday thing and the cryptic declarations, she doesn’t seem any worse off than you. So take that for what it’s worth.”

Harry fell silent, thinking it over.

He felt he was holding it together reasonably well, despite, as Dudley described Petunia, jumping at shadows. But what were the odds that the two of them, separated by the length of Britain and great disregard, were having the same sorts of eerie feelings?

He tried to push those thoughts from his mind, had told all seven years of his students that it was fine, Everything Is All Fine, even while, in his own body, his guts were twisting themselves into knots on a daily basis.

Was he tapping into some sort of Universal Consciousness? And somehow, mindbogglingly, his Aunt Petunia was as well? His instincts were telling him something was Not Right, and his instincts had almost always been Right.

“Pick her up some rhodiola from the chemist,” Harry suggested, thinking it was a very good idea for himself as well. “I know Muggles carry it.”

Dudley nodded. “Good idea. If I can get her to accept it, anyway. She might think it was something only hippies use.”

“You could have Mr Lao pack up a few Calming Draughts for you, slip it in her tea.”

Dudley raised his eyebrows. “Secretly dosing other people with drugs is not generally considered well done in the Muggle world, Harry. I know you wizards have your own, odd sense of ethics, but—”

Ms Lovecraft screamed.

“The Old Ones! The Old Ones!” she cried, her voice so primal and utterly terrified that Harry nearly pissed himself.

He and Dudley ran to the children, gathered them in tight while they scanned the park looking for threats. Dudley with his sheer size and Harry with a terrified, wandless _Protego_ around all twenty-two of them.

Ms Lovecraft was still screaming, but Harry couldn’t see a thing, and then Ms Williams—the most rational of all his fifth years—started screaming, too. Her voice cut off midway through as she fainted, and Mr Kilgore and Mr Dearborn jointly caught her before she cracked her head open.

“Holy shit!” Kilgore yelled, and by then, the entire park was a screaming, running mess of Muggles.

Ms Lovecraft was still screaming, her voice breaking and tearing, her bloodless face covered in snot and tears. Kilgore pointed up in the sky, and Harry followed with his eyes. What he saw made his heart skip a dozen beats.

“Oh, my fucking god,” Dudley said.

Harry was briefly aware of Dudley pulling out his mobile and snapping a photo, but it all happened so fast, the span of a breath, and then it was gone, the air hollow and vacuous, the sounds of screaming silenced as blood rushed to his ears and his left ear deafened him with a sudden, shrill ringing.

“Hold hands!” Harry yelled.

The students snapped to comply, creating a knot of connected bodies. Harry grabbed hold of Dudley with one hand and Ms Williams’s available hand with the other, and Apparated all of them straight to the gates of Hogwarts.

*


	10. Chapter 10

Draco was trembling—though doing a passable job at hiding it—when he and Pansy made their way down to the Infirmary.

Pansy was still, inexplicably, holding her teacup from their interrupted catch-up in the staff room. The tea threatened to spill over with every rushed step they took, only some latent magic in the tea set keeping it all inside.

“They’re fine,” she said, but she wasn’t talking to Draco. “They’re all fine. Even Kilgore.”

Her eyes were focused straight ahead. As they turned the corner into the Hospital Wing, she broke into a restrained run, her heeled boots clicking quickly against the newly planked floors. Draco hurried to follow.

The doors swung open as they approached and Pansy flew in, her hair and robes lifting as she rushed for Madam Pomfrey.

“They’re fine,” Madam Pomfrey said, right away. “Physically.”

Pansy stopped short, inhaled and exhaled slowly. Draco put a hand on her back and she gave him a grateful smile.

All the beds in the Infirmary were full, and two extra had been conjured. Most of the students were awake, munching on bars of Honeydukes’ Best 75% Cacao And Extra- _Extra_ Sugar Chocolate.

Dudley had exited his own bed and was sitting by Ms Williams’s, holding a low-voiced conversation with her as she took impossibly small bites of her chocolate bar. Ms Lovecraft, who was in Draco’s fifth-year Ancient Cultures and Casting class, and Potter were both out cold. Mr Lao was leaning over Potter, running a number of diagnostics with his wand. He frowned at the readings and retreated to the Matron’s office, presumably to pull Potter’s chart.

“What’s wrong with Ms Lovecraft and Professor Potter?” Draco asked.

Pomfrey frowned. “I’ve had to give Ms Lovecraft several Calming Draughts and a Dreamless Sleep. She was…not well. Harry, I’m afraid, is suffering from magical exhaustion. He Side-Alonged twenty-one people from London to Hogwarts.”

_“What?”_ Pansy and Draco exclaimed together.

Pomfrey gave them a hard look.

“That’s impossible!” Draco whispered.

“I would have agreed with you just yesterday, Professor Malfoy,” said Pomfrey. “Adrenaline and fear, however, can do wondrous things with magic.”

Pansy had her hand over her mouth. Draco couldn’t remember seeing her eyes so wide since the war. “What on earth did they _see_?”

Madam Pomfrey made a face. “As I understand it, Pansy,” she said, as she turned and led them further back into the Infirmary. “It wasn’t _on earth_ , at all. Dudley?”

Dudley looked up from Ms Williams’s bed and Pomfrey gestured him over. They retreated to the Matron’s office where Mr Lao was already seated, going over Potter’s medical chart. He gave them a tight smile as they entered. Pomfrey ushered them in and shut the door behind her. She conjured a chair for Dudley and left Pansy and Draco to create their own.

When they were all sat, Dudley pulled out his mobile, a device Muggles used much like a Floo call, but which did not require fire and fit within one’s pocket, so that it was entirely, as it happened, ‘mobile.’

“It gets a bit wonky at the school,” Dudley said, as his thumbs tapped against the glass picture. “But Harry rigged it to mostly work around magic. Let me just…one sec.”

He tapped some more. “Here we go.”

He passed the mobile to Pansy, who squinted down at the glass picture and then scrunched her eyebrows. Draco peered over her shoulder and felt his expression follow a similar path.

It was blurry, like one of the Impressionist paintings that Severus sometimes used when he visited Astoria’s office while Draco was up there chatting with her. A grey-blue and clouded background with a long, sharp, isosceles triangle in front. Like if someone had tossed a fanged frisbee in the air.

“What am I looking at?” Pansy asked.

“It was in the sky,” said Dudley. There was an odd note in his voice.

Draco glanced up at him. He looked like he could use a bar of chocolate himself, but Draco doubted he’d eaten one. Eschewing sugar and carbohydrates was all well and good, but Draco really didn’t think this was the time.

“But what was it?” he asked.

Dudley shrugged. It was hesitant, almost like he didn’t believe himself. “I can’t be sure.”

“If you had to guess,” Draco prompted.

Dudley exchanged a glance with Madam Pomfrey. She looked tight-lipped and upset. Behind her, Mr Lao’s fingers were white around his quill and a puddle of ink was collecting on Potter’s medical file.

“Just look at it,” Dudley said, gesturing towards the mobile Pansy still held in her hand. “It was in the sky, just hovering there. As big as the Quidditch Pitch, just sitting there, no more than a thousand or so feet up. Black as night—so black, I’d swear it actually devoured the light around it. And it was so utterly silent. Not a hum. It wasn’t natural, nothing any human—magical or Muggle—made. I’d swear on my life.”

“If people didn’t make it,” Pansy said, frustrated, “Then who did? Centaurs?”

Dudley took his mobile back and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes focused anywhere but on them. “But it sure as hell scared me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scared in my life, not even when me and Harry were stalked by those Dementors.”

Draco frowned. Did Muggles know something magical people didn’t?

There was something Dudley wasn’t saying. But Draco knew he wouldn’t get anything out of him right now. Not with everyone else around. Potter obviously knew something about it, too—it wasn’t just some random scare to Potter; that wasn’t enough to rouse one’s magic into Side-Alonging twenty-one other people (and yourself) across all of Britain.

Draco suddenly felt his stomach tightening with dread.

Potter was the definition of Gryffindor. What on Merlin’s earth could’ve scared him that badly?

*

Harry rubbed his eyes, his whole face, absently wondering if he could rub his own skin off and it would take with it the memory of what he’d seen that morning. He’d only woken up an hour ago, after being out for nearly twenty-four hours, and he felt as if he could still sleep a week.

But that wasn’t an option right now.

“Harry,” Ginny said, softly. She was sat on Harry’s dated, old royal blue settee, balancing a cup of tea on her knee with her free hand. Dudley had taken the other arm chair. Ron and Hermione were by the fireplace, on a small loveseat Hermione had conjured, though they’d left Rose and Hugo with Molly and Arthur for the evening.

They’d exhausted the pleasantries and were now sitting in a tense silence. Albus was curled on Ginny’s lap, petting Harry’s invisible dog, Ms Danger. Luna leant into Gin’s free side, gave Harry a soft smile.

He looked up and gave Ginny a tired smile.

Seeing his son—their son—the only surviving one, sitting right there, just feet from him, with no awareness whatsoever that there was anything in the world to fear, made Harry’s heart skip a beat. Ginny ran her hand over Al’s dark, curly hair and he grinned up at her with the same handsome, toothy smile Ron had had when they were kids.

“Are you okay?” Gin asked.

Harry grimaced. No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t anything close to okay. His head was spinning with a hundred different terrifying future paths, like he was a ruddy seer or something. And just like Trelawney, none of the futures he saw were good ones.

Harry felt much like he had that day Hagrid told him he was a wizard. His eleventh birthday, the whole world had changed. He was thirty-three now, and the world was changing again. But instead of changing with something wonderful like magic, it was changing into a dystopia of horror and grisly sci-fi films.

He glanced at Albus, forced a smile onto his face. “Fine.”

Luna gave him an unimpressed look. Without hesitation, she pointed her wand at Albus and gently cast an Adult Conversation spell over his ears, so Albus would only hear them chatting about the most boring stuff imaginable.

“Not fine,” Harry admitted then, grinning a little. “Bloody terrified, to be honest.”

“Harry, it’s _going_ to be fine,” Ginny said, in her characteristic fiery optimism. “I know it’s weird, but we’ve all got magic, and—“

“Gin, you didn’t see it—“

A knock on the door made all of them jump, even Luna, who was never rattled.

Harry waved his hand to open the door. Malfoy stood there, blinking at the quick open and the crowd of people in Harry’s sitting room.

“Hello, Draco,” Luna said, from Ginny’s other side.

Dudley waved, though with less spirit than usual.

“Come in, Draco,” Hermione added.

Ron mouthed, ‘Draco?’ to Harry, grimacing.

Malfoy still hesitated in the doorway, so Harry waved his hand. “Come on, Malfoy. You’re letting in the draught.”

“I didn’t realise you had company. I can come back another time.”

“I suspect you’re here to talk about the same thing we’re already discussing,” Hermione said. “Might as well talk about it together.”

Despite her calm exterior, Hermione was the only one here besides Harry and Dudley who’d been raised Muggle. She knew exactly what Dudley’s picture meant, and she’d whispered to Harry, when he poured her tea, if he could add a drop of something stronger to it. Dudley had just glared at Harry until he doctored his cup, too.

Malfoy laughed, another awkward, uncomfortable thing. “I suspect so.”

“Sit then,” said Harry. He gestured for him to take the last floor cushion. “You can have Al’s play mat there; just Transfigure it however you like. Tea? Coffee? Three fingers of Old Lusty Centaur?”

Ginny laughed, wiggled her eyebrows. Dudley and Hermione gave more stilted smiles.

The magically raised people were unsettlingly less concerned than Harry felt they should be—they seemed to find it strange and curious, but not anything that magic couldn’t take care of. It wasn’t like the ship had attacked them; it wasn’t like it was _Voldemort_. Or at least that’s what they seemed to think.

Malfoy was startled into a small laugh, too, much more reserved than Ginny’s. “I wouldn’t say no to the whiskey.”

Malfoy changed Albus’s play mat into a high-backed wing chair with mahogany detailing and royal blue damask upholstery. It matched the recycled furniture already in Harry’s rooms.

“You’ve got an eye for Transfiguration,” Harry murmured as he watched Malfoy settle in.

Harry walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a bit of Old Lusty Centaur into a steaming cuppa for Malfoy. He walked it back over and handed it to him. Their fingers grazed as the cup passed between them; it sent a surge of sparkling fire through Harry’s body. He ignored it.

“We were discussing what Harry and Dudley saw in the sky this morning,” Hermione said.

Malfoy glanced at Albus, quietly petting what was either Ms Danger or nothing at all. He lifted an eyebrow.

“He’s got an Adult Convo spell on,” Ginny said.

“Dudley showed me a photograph,” Malfoy said, nodding to Dud, “but I didn’t recognise it. Do you know what it was?”

Harry hesitated. “I know what I _think_ it was.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Potter, you Apparated yourself and twenty-one other people. You were obviously certain enough that your magic went batshit insane in response.”

“I was afraid,” Harry said levelly.

Malfoy’s face went steadily more still, as if he were hiding all emotion but only slowly realising he needed to. “You admit to that?”

“I’d admit it every hour every day for the rest of my life if I could un-see it.”

“What the hell was it, then?” Malfoy asked.

Harry hesitated. Behind him, Snape took this opportunity to speak up from his painting amid a sea of Scotties. “Draco, you will wish you did not know if he tells you.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “You know, too.”

Harry watched Malfoy look around the room, saw it when realisation appeared on his face.

“It’s a Muggle thing,” Malfoy surmised. “Something people who’ve lived with Muggles know about. It can’t be worse than our whole society burning at the stake. _What is it?_ ”

“It’s extraterrestrial lifeforms, Draco,” Hermione said.

Malfoy frowned. “The fuck is that?”

Harry laughed, which was totally the wrong response in a time like this but he couldn’t help it. Absurdity led to absurdity.

“People from other planets,” Harry said.

Malfoy did not look impressed. “Muggles will believe in people from other planets, but not _magic_? Maybe I shouldn’t worry about the Statute after all.”

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” said Luna.

“Are we even sure these _exist_?” said Ron, for not the first time. “I’ve never heard of people from other planets? And which planet are they from? Mars? It’s too cold there. And Venus is way too hot. Like, hotter than that time Hermione and I went to the south of France for our honeymoon, which must’ve been at least 27 degrees.”

“Planets from other solar systems.”

“Planets around other stars, you mean?” asked Malfoy. “How the hell did they Apparate this far?”

“They wouldn’t have Apparated,” Hermione said. Her fingers were white around her teacup. “They would have flown here, in a flying ship. The ship is what Harry saw in the sky today.”

Malfoy turned to Harry. “You believe this?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Malfoy sat back in his chair, thinking. After a moment, he said, “Is this bad?”

Hermione burst out laughing, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, sorry!” she said. “It’s just…if I may channel Harry for a moment: Who fucking knows? People or creatures from other planets—or aliens, as we called them in the Muggle world—have always been one of those things that we don’t quite know if they exist or not. There have been sightings throughout history, people claimed to have seen nonhuman people, or to have seen nonhuman-made aircraft, but it’s always had an element of conspiracy to it. Do they exist, or is it a hoax? And if they do exist, why are they here? What do they want from us?”

“What did you believe, Hermione?” Ginny asked, still petting Albus who was still petting Ms Danger. “Before?”

Hermione frowned, thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I believe, statistically, that there is a very probable chance that aliens exist on some planet somewhere. There are just far too many star systems in the universe for life to have not sprung up somewhere else, too. It’s irrational to believe that we, people on Earth, are the special one-in-a-trillion case.

“On the other hand, there was never enough evidence for me to truly believe aliens—should they exist—would have bothered to come here, or that they would have the technology to overcome such a great distance. You know, it takes a single particle of light, a photon, eight minutes and twenty seconds to travel from the Sun to Earth. We’re 92.96 million miles from the Sun. By comparison, the Earth is 4.24 light years away from the next closest star, Proxima Centauri. And no one has yet discovered a method of traveling as fast as light, not even with Apparition. So it seems quite insurmountable as a distance.”

“Oh,” said Ginny, blinking.

“I see,” Malfoy said, though it was obvious he didn’t.

Hermione smiled a little. “I know it’s complex. But I think you do get the general idea? That it’s a really, _really_ big distance between Earth and even the possibility of other lifeforms, and there’s no guarantee that there are even any habitable planets orbiting that star.

“So why would another, advanced species take so much time, energy, and resources to come to us? Your question of whether or not it’s bad that someone is here, visiting us, well…” She shivered. “Well, it’s just hard to imagine they’ve come for anything _banal_.”

“They could be emissaries,” Ginny suggested.

“They could be,” Hermione allowed.

“You really think the photograph on Dudley’s mobile showed people from another planet, Granger?”

She hesitated, shared a look with Harry. “I trust Harry. It doesn’t look like anything the Muggle militaries could have created, doesn’t sound like any technology I’ve heard of. And I’ll tell you this: I consider myself a very rational person, but when I saw that photo—and there was another in the papers, the Muggle papers, I mean, that was even clearer—I felt dread like I’ve never felt in my life. That was _not_ a human creation. It was _not_ an earthly creation. And I don’t think they’re here for anything good.”

“Which brings us right round to the crux,” Harry said. He turned to Ginny. “I want you and Al and Luna to move into Hogwarts full time. Or if you don’t want that, then Grimmauld with a Secret.”

Ginny pursed her lips. “Harry, we’ll be fine in Hogsmeade, like we have been.”

“Please, Gin. Luna has rooms assigned to her here already, and Hogwarts is heavily warded. At least for awhile. I can’t even think straight worrying about Albus all the time.”

She gave him a tragic look and he knew they were both thinking the same thing, that Al was the only one they had, their only living son. He was more valuable than gold to both of them. They had to do ridiculously annoying things like take probably unnecessary precautions, because his life was everything. Sometimes, that made it hard for Harry to remember to just enjoy hanging out with him.

“Fine, all right. But only until this all blows over. And then we’re going back to Hogsmeade.”

Harry exhaled. “Good. Thanks. I’m going to talk to Minerva about how we can improve the wards, too. With the Statute in question and now these mysterious ships floating around, I’d feel a lot better if Hogwarts was virtually invisible to _everyone_. We have no idea if these people have magic or not, if the anti-Muggle charms will even work on them.

Ginny went white. “I didn’t even think about that.”

Neither had Malfoy, by his sudden gasp.

“Hopefully one of our problems will go away soon,” Hermione added optimistically.

But then she grimaced. “Against my protestations, the ICW’s planning to try the _Obliviate_ again. I’ve been given a new research team to figure it out. It’s already been over a month since Atlantis appeared. I don’t see how we could possibly _Obliviate_ that much from anyone without affecting their sanity. My hope is it just doesn’t work at all.”

The conversation died down after that, and then it was just eight anxious people sitting in the same room with a kid and an invisible pet. Ron and Hermione left, and Dudley, Ginny, Luna, and Al trickled out soon afterwards, and then it was just him and Malfoy. At some point, Harry’d refilled their teacups without bothering with tea this time, and they sat staring at the dying fire in the hearth. Malfoy’s transfigured chair was still stable, not even a hint of fading fabric, while Harry’s would’ve returned to a playmat by now.

“That was your son,” said Malfoy, a hint of a question lingering at the end. He’d heard about Albus’s playdates with Scorpius, but hadn’t met him in person, yet.

Harry nodded. “That was Albus Severus, yeah. We call him Al, but Snape’s keen to use his full name. I think he’s flattered.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, Potter,” came an annoyed voice from the Scottie-filled landscape above the fireplace.

Harry grinned without bothering to turn and look at the source. “In tribute to a great man, stolen from us much too soon. A bright, young life snuffed out before its time. A Greek tragedy in real life—“

“I _am_ actually Greek, you tosser,” Snape said.

“How fortuitous,” Harry said, finally craning his neck around to look the man in the eye. “The Queen of Atlantis must be delighted to have an engaging fluent speaker to chat with in her library.”

Malfoy was watching all this with a Slytherin eye.

He looked so regal sitting straight against the royal blue upholstery, his white-blond hair contrasted against the cotton. For the first time, Harry wondered what it would have been like to spend evenings in a common room with him at Hogwarts, what he and Astoria had talked about during spare few months of their marriage, when they’d been young enough to not be exhausted all the time.

“You’re thirty-three, Potter,” said Snape, with heavy dryness. “In just five years’ time, you too can be a bright, young life snuffed out before its time. I’ve no doubt Mr Malfoy would be delighted to help you attain such striking parallelism with me. And now I must bid you goodnight, as Atlantis is three hours behind Greenwich Mean Time and I can still browse the library before it closes for the evening. Good day.”

When Snape was gone, Harry’s rooms suddenly felt a lot emptier. He knew Ms Danger was still around, probably draped over some book, trying to predict what the ending would be. She tended to hide from strangers, and had gone invisible as soon as Ginny arrived, although she would reveal herself to Luna every now and again, and was very happy to be visible around Albus.

“You’ve a son, too,” Harry said. “I’ve heard he and Albus are good friends. How old is he?”

“Seven.”

Harry laughed. “Al’s seven, too. Eight in December.”

“Scorpius in February.”

“Winter kids, huh?” said Harry. “Luna says winter children are more independent.”

“I suppose Scorpius will have to be since he’ll always be an only child,” Malfoy said, wryly.

Harry’s stomach dropped. Jamie, he thought. “Al, too,” he managed to say.

Malfoy noticed the tension and of course, being Malfoy, couldn’t resist prodding at it. “Won’t you ever get remarried?” he asked.

“If the right person comes along, I guess. When Gin and I divorced, I didn’t think I’d be interested. She was—is—my best friend. Not easily replaced, you know?”

There was a pregnant silence. Malfoy sipped his whiskey and seemed to come to a decision. “I suppose you divorced because of her sexuality,” he said.

Harry laughed. “Wow, you really don’t have any filters, do you?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Not usually, no.”

“I suppose we did. Gin’s…very gay. Super gay. I’m…more flexible. But she’s just, really, really gay. We both wanted kids and otherwise we love one another, so we thought we’d give it a go, but then. Well, we had another, before Al—a boy, James. There were...complications. He didn’t make it. We got a divorce, and then too drunk one night, and Al came from that. And it really worked out because Luna is probably the most perfect person in the world for Gin, and a great extra mum for Al. I figure one can never have too many mums, you know?”

But of course, Malfoy apparently only heard a fraction of what he said. “What do you mean you’re flexible?” he demanded.

“Don’t be daft, Malfoy.”

Malfoy burst out laughing, the action totally transforming his face, from pointy to terribly dear. Harry swallowed, discomfited.

“It’s just, your marriage sounds like mine and Astoria’s. I needed an heir, she needed a quick escape from the terrible match her father was planning for her. We faked a love match to have Scorpius. After providing an heir, pure-blood witches can more easily divorce and choose their own partners.”

“Astoria’s gay?” Harry asked.

“ _I’m_ gay,” Malfoy said, and Harry blinked rapidly several times. “I don’t think Astoria’s very interested in either romance or sex.” He shrugged. “She was also a winter child.”

Harry tried to play off the strange feeling he was getting, the heat he could feel suffusing his face. “How’d you manage the, er, particulars?”

“What a very crass question,” said Malfoy, but his eyes were crinkling at the corners. “I suspect we both thought of England for the duration. Fortunately, she conceived the first month, and we were both quite relieved.”

“Sex is such a funny thing,” Harry mused. “When you’re a teenager, it’s all you think about. Then, when you’re an adult, you find that it’s not nearly as uncomplicated or exciting as you thought it would be. I used to sit in Binns’s class and fantasise about all the sex I’d have if I lived to be an adult. I think I mentally tried it on with half the people in our year, and it all seemed so great. Now…” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve managed to pull anyone in the last twelve months, and I didn’t even remember to think about it until just now.”

“That is tragically pathetic, Potter,” Malfoy said.

“And you have, then?”

Malfoy smirked. “I do all right.”

“Sex doesn’t seem quite as important now,” Harry said. “All I’ve been able to think about since the nineteenth of August is ‘What do I need to do to keep Albus safe?’ It’s my driving force.”

“I’m very grateful Astoria’s here,” Malfoy agreed. “That was one of the main reasons I submitted my application for this posting. I wanted Scorpius to have a relatively stable childhood, with his mother and father in the same place as much as possible. Although, he’s very much a mummy’s boy so I haven’t seen much of him since we’ve returned. Much like his father in that regard,” he added wryly.

“So what are we going to do to protect our winter kids?” Harry said, sighing into the bottom of his empty cup.

When had it become empty? Sometime between when Harry last filled them and now. He glanced at the clock and saw it was well past one in the morning. He felt suddenly terribly grateful for Malfoy coming by tonight. He was exhausted now, barely keeping his eyes open, and he doubted he would’ve been able to sleep tonight if he hadn’t got this chance to just talk to someone.

“I want to know more about these—aliens, she called them? Where can I find more information on them?” asked Malfoy.

Harry scrunched his nose, thinking it over. “I don’t know that we’ll find any scientific information, but I could take you into London, to the library, and we could search them on the internet. I’ve got a laptop here, but WiFi over magic is agonisingly slow.”

Malfoy nodded, apparently pretending he knew what that meant. “I want to know everything you know. I need information to create a plan.”

It was a Friday night, with two free days before them. Loathe as Harry was to venture back out into London ever again for the rest of his life, given today’s events, he knew he couldn’t hide. Maybe he hadn’t even seen what he thought he saw. Maybe it was an experimental military jet. Maybe it was a publicity stunt. He couldn’t hide forever.

“We can go to London tomorrow if you like,” he said.

Malfoy agreed, and soon they’d made plans to meet after breakfast to Floo into London.

Malfoy left, and Harry puttered around for a few minutes more, tidying up their teacups and putting Albus’s toys away. He nearly tripped over Ms Danger, but she successfully predicted his clumsiness and moved out of the way in time. Very useful to have a pet with the Sight. It wasn’t until Harry was turning into bed that he realised Malfoy’s Transfigured chair was still holding strong in his sitting room.

*


	11. Chapter 11

Saturday morning dawned sharply cold. The biting wind and grey sky reminded Harry of his sixth year, when the weather had turned abnormally and unseasonably cold that October, and Dementor sightings had been more commonplace than owls at breakfast.

Harry shivered as he got up from his bed, hopping across the frigid fucking floor to grab his tartan dressing gown from the back of his door. He shrugged it on, practically vibrating with cold and cursed his lack of forethought into built-in Warming Charms on the floor. He’d been putting it off, rationalising that it wasn’t quite cold enough to bother with yet.

He bet Malfoy’s feet were warm this morning.

Harry hopped into the shower, sighing happily at the scalding hot spray. It warmed him through and he felt, finally, able to face the day. Facing days was something he was finding more and more difficult.

Everything since 19 August had been so…different.

And not even in any substantial way. But Malfoy, unlike other magically raised people, was taking this weirdness seriously, and Harry felt a strange kinship with him because of it. Ron thought it was a bit of an overreaction, and Gin did, too. But Harry knew it wasn’t, and Malfoy agreed, and that…felt like they were on some wavelength together. Malfoy _knew_ something was off. Everyone everywhere—magical and Muggle alike—were trying their hardest to act as though nothing was different.

But something was.

Harry just didn’t know what that something was, yet. He didn’t know if he even believed his own memory.

He did remember to cast a Warming Charm on the floor before he stepped out of the bathroom again, but his Warming Charms were shit and it only changed it from ice-cold to old-tea-cold. He tossed his damp towel on the bed, and it draped over an invisible lump. The lump grumbled, wiggled, and scurried under the blankets.

“Sleeping in is unlike you,” Harry said over his shoulder as he stepped into his pants. “Is it daylight savings this weekend?”

The invisible lump grumbled again.

“Yeah, it’s really cold,” he agreed. He pulled out a t-shirt from his drawer and slid it on, followed quickly by a warm flannel and his favourite comfy jeans and black sneakers. He grabbed Sirius’s old jacket from the back of the door and slipped it on. “You’re not going to stay in bed all day, are you? Don’t you have books to read?”

“Mreumph!”

“Fine, fine,” Harry said. “But don’t forget to return the Animagus book you checked out last week. I’m not paying your fines to Madam Pince again just because you’re too lazy to walk up to the library.”

The silence he got in return was distinctly pointed. Harry wished he could have a lie-in whenever he felt like it. And on Saturdays, he really should’ve had the option, but today was London-with-Malfoy day, to have a peek at the computers in the British Library.

He got a weird little shiver down his spine then, the hairs on the back of his neck sticking up. He looked behind him, but no one was in his suite except his lazy, furry Demiguise-Spaniel mutt. Harry frowned as he reached for his wallet. He was seriously on edge lately, and it was kind of embarrassing.

After yesterday, he thought it was pretty fair to be creeped out, but he was starting to wonder if he _had_ imagined it.

He hadn’t, right?

Other people in the park had seen it; Dudley had even got a photo on his mobile. Although the photo was a bit blurred from movement, and it really only showed a kind of triangle-ish shape above the trees, in the darkest, most void-like black Harry had ever seen.

Harry stepped out of his rooms and set the ward so Ms Danger could come and go as she pleased—hopefully to return her library books on time—and headed for the front steps to wait on Malfoy, who would probably be late because he was a Slytherin.

But Malfoy was already there, tapping his foot, when Harry turned the last corner to the Entrance Hall. He pointedly checked his wristwatch as Harry approached.

“Cutting it a bit close, Potter,” he said.

“I was planning around you being late,” Harry said, wryly.

“Hm,” was all Malfoy said. He didn’t look impressed.

Harry Side-Alonged them to the loo at King’s Cross. They received a few raised eyebrows upon exiting the cubicle together, but Malfoy ignored it entirely and Harry was blushing too hard to do much else.

But as soon as they got outside the men’s, it became quickly apparent that things were not…normal. All the people standing about, waiting for their trains, were tense, casting furtive looks as if waiting for someone to jump out at any minute. Malfoy’s posture stiffened almost immediately, as he picked up on the same strangeness.

“Something’s not right,” Malfoy muttered,voice low.

“I know,” Harry whispered back.

They twined through the crowds as quickly as possible, and when Harry spotted a discarded paper on the ground, he swooped down to pick it up, tucked it under his arm, and kept walking. Malfoy was pressing close to him, so close Harry could feel the heat from his body radiating all the way through his surprisingly suitable Muggle peacoat and pressing into Harry’s own skin through the leather of Harry’s jacket.

Once they were clear of the station, Harry unrolled the paper and held it out for them to read as they walked. But the photograph above the fold made Harry’s heart skip a beat, and Malfoy’s hand shot out and grabbed Harry’s shoulder, pulling him to a stop in the middle of a busy pavement.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” about a dozen people said, passively annoyed, as they worked their way around Harry and Malfoy, stood stock still in the middle of the fucking pavement.

But not even that, not even his ingrained British need to not be an impolite arsehole pushed him to move.

“ _That’s_ what you saw?” Malfoy asked, and Harry tried to ignore how his voice broke mid-word.

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice, too, cracking.

This picture was much clearer than the one Dudley had taken. It was much clearer than Harry could have even _remembered_ if he’d thought to put the memory in a Pensieve (which he hadn’t).

There was no doubt about it now; he couldn’t pretend he’d imagined it. This was a _ship_. A fucking _flying vessel_. Intelligently designed, but not by any human hand, magical or Muggle. It was so black it sucked in light like a black hole, and it was full of sharp, teeth-like points going straight forward, with a colossal wingspan. There were no windows, no landing gear that he could see—and he looked, _hard_.

“This doesn’t look like an airplane,” Malfoy said, after a moment. His fingers were white where they gripped the other half of the paper.

Harry swallowed. “It’s not.”

Almost as one, they looked up at the sky. There was nothing there, just a dreary, grey cast that promised rain eventually.

“Let’s get to the library,” Malfoy said, and took off walking through St Pancras International to the library on the other side, as if he’d done it a hundred times. Harry wondered if he had—and if so, why he’d so readily accepted Harry’s aid today.

*

The library was bustling. Unsurprising for a Saturday, but still busier than Harry had expected. He shouldn’t have been so surprised, because as he passed other people using the library computers, he caught glimpses of the ship in the sky, green alien faces, and even a grainy shot of the palace in Atlantis. They obviously weren’t the only ones with this idea today.

They found a free computer and crowded around it. Malfoy seemed to have at least some idea of how computers worked because he didn’t ask any obnoxious questions or demand to do the navigating himself, which Harry appreciated. Harry pulled up a browser, typed ‘aliens’ into the Google search box.

“Might as well start with the basics, right?” he said, by way of explanation.

Google returned a page of results on everything from _‘Is This What Aliens Could Actually Look like? Oxford Scientists Make a Strong Case’_ to the IMDb page for the 1986 sci-fi film. Harry was careful not to click on that one, for fear of the nightmares he’d have the rest of the week.

Instead, they started with the piece from the Oxford scientists. It had some drawings of everything from waterbears to nearly-human looking beings, only with bigger heads and eyes. Malfoy looked more and more disturbed as their search continued.

Harry tried to keep them to reputable sources (as reputable as possible, anyway) but couldn’t help clicking through to links proclaiming _‘The Mystery of the 'mummified aliens of Nazca' should 'change world history’’_ and _‘5 Alien Species in Contact With Earth Right Now.’_

Malfoy remained stoically silent throughout, merely pointing to links he wanted to read.

  * _'GOD MADE ALIENS' Shock theory that UFOs are sent by 'our creator'_
_
  * US Marines 'film crystal clear footage of huge UFO' in Arizona Desert
  * UFO hunter’s video claims to prove that there are ‘mobile alien bases’ on surface of the Moon
  * Proof of Ancient Aliens in the National Museum of Iraq? 
  * Why We’ll Have Evidence of Aliens—If They Exist—By 2035
  * UFO hunter claims proof of giant alien ship that crashed 'millions of years ago'
  * Why alien abductions are down dramatically
_ 


But these were all older articles.

Harry and Malfoy both wanted to know the cultural history around aliens and UFOs, but once they had a fair idea, they were more interested more recent news.

“What are they saying now?” asked Malfoy.

Articles from the last week were focused entirely on the ship sighting over St James Park. People from all over the world were talking about their own sightings, which had never before been taken seriously; cattle and livestock mutilations; missing people; missing time.

Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest when he came across one story from a woman in Idaho who had experienced abductions _with sleep paralysis_ for years.

Was Hermione in danger?

This was bigger than even he’d thought.

“What do you think they want?” Malfoy asked. “Why are they here?”

Harry had no idea. He shook his head.

“We need to get the ICW to focus on this, and stop worrying about another _Obliviate_ ,” Malfoy whispered to him.

“Yeah, we do,” Harry agreed.

He couldn’t stop now. He had to know more. To know _everything_. Harry navigated to YouTube and they spent an hour, at least, watching videos of UFO sightings. Some looked similar to the one Harry had seen in the park, albeit from a greater distance. Others less so. The only thing they had in common was the heavy, ominous feeling Harry got in his gut when he watched them.

He was reminded, several times, of the fairies he’d seen at the beginning of term. Fairies that were supposed to be hibernating. Were those…?

Were there more UFO sightings now than before? Had that sighting in London _meant_ to be seen? Were they trying to tell people they were here?

If so, why?

And most of all, Harry wanted to know: What did the Queen of Atlantis know about all this?

*

The sun was beginning to set as they exited the library, both feeling heavier than they had when they entered, if Malfoy’s distracted frown was anything to go by. Without words, they took the long way back round to the King’s Cross loos. Harry put his hands in his jacket pockets and let his gaze fall to the pavement just in front of his feet as they walked.

He was afraid of looking up and seeing one of them. He was afraid of _not_ seeing one, and knowing, somehow, that they were around anyway.

They still didn’t know why the UFOs were here, what they wanted.

Also, they’d compounded the problem with Atlantis by trying to _Obliviate_ all the Muggles. There were two fronts to this battle now, instead of one.

BBC’s homepage had suggested Atlantis wasn’t an island, but a UFO that had landed in the Atlantic and anchored. Queen Sostrate had indeed met with leaders from around the world, and a secret summit convened afterwards, though to what aim no civilian reporter seemed to know. And then came the abductions—something Harry had not even been aware of until he read the investigative report on BBC today. And then came the sighting in London. And then the truce had, apparently, disintegrated and militaries convened on Atlantis.

The US and Russia both had nuclear warheads aimed at it, though North Korea’s weren’t believed to be able to reach that far, and the United States was losing its shit over the possibility a warhead would fall on Nebraska in the near future. The UK was being slightly more circumspect, but only slightly: almost every single ship in its navy was encircling the island, waiting. And so were militaries from every armed country in the world.

They were near to nuclear war, which even Malfoy seemed to understand was bad. They were near to the Statute falling to shit. They were near to a fucking alien invasion. And Harry would take Voldemort over this any day of any week.

A Great Horned Owl swooped down on them like a bat out of hell as they turned into the alley. Harry nearly pissed himself in fright and Malfoy must’ve jumped a foot in the air. It screeched hurriedly and alighted on Malfoy’s arm. His face was a picture of alarm.

The owl stuck its foot out and Malfoy took the letter with shaking hands. The owl took off again, and Malfoy gave it a distracted look before unrolling the parchment.

“It’s from my mother,” he said, his eyes scanning the paper. “There’s something—I need to go home.”

“I’m coming with you,” Harry said. It was too coincidental that something strange would happen with the Malfoys just now, and Harry wanted to see whatever it was.

Malfoy gave him a look too distracted to be annoyed, nodded his head. “Fine, grab on.”

Harry took hold of Malfoy’s elbow and felt him twist them away into the void.

*

They arrived inside the house, rather than at the gates Harry, Hermione, and Ron had once been taken to during the War. The air was awash with the scent of eucalyptus, slowly fading as Malfoy’s magic retreated back inside him.

Lucius and Narcissa were waiting for them. Their postures changed at once upon spotting Harry. Narcissa took the first step forward, holding out her hand, and Lucius followed.

“Mr Potter,” she said. “Welcome to our home.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice she had the same terror-struck expression and lack of colour he’d witnessed that night in May, all those years ago. She was trying to hide it, but not entirely succeeding.

Harry nodded in thanks and bit down on the slimy feeling in his gut as Lucius Malfoy put his hand out as well.

“Good evening, Mr Potter. Thank you for coming.”

“Mother,” said Malfoy, and took her in his arms for a fierce hug. He pulled back, studied her face, and said nothing before turning to Lucius. “Father. You look well.”

Lucius smirked wryly. “As well as I look every week in the Ministry announcements section of the paper, I’m sure.”

This seemed to be a joke between them. Malfoy had the sense not to agree with it. Instead, he said, “Will you show me where it is?”

At this point, Harry still did not know what ‘it’ was, but he had a foreboding feeling that seemed to be the normal state of things of late. Narcissa and Lucius led them from the Apparition Parlour, through the hall to the Solar, and out into the gardens beyond. The sun had nearly set by now and light was low and the temperature had dropped several degrees from the smoggy heat of London. Harry shivered, and smiled in thanks when Malfoy touched his wand against his low back and cast a warming charm over him.

They followed Malfoy’s parents down a cobbled path that came to a cul-de-sac at the edge of a steep hill. There was enough light left for Harry to look down and see the White Horse of Wiltshire directly below them. And just beyond that, larger than anything Harry’d ever seen: a geometric shape, like a flower of life, pressed into the wheat below.

Harry grabbed Malfoy’s wrist, though he had no idea why.

He wished he’d brought Snape’s portrait, that it wasn’t still down in Atlantis, probably waiting to be nuked. He had a hysterical moment where he hoped Snape got to his frame in Hogwarts before that happened. But his eyes were glued to the field and the relief of shadows and light barely visible in the fading gloaming light.

“Where did that come from?” Malfoy asked tightly.

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a speaking glance. Lucius cleared his throat and said, “We don’t know. Your mother found it this afternoon, during her walk around the grounds.”

“I’m sure I must have fainted,” she admitted, her unnaturally blue eyes glued to the scene before them. “I left the house just after three for my daily walk, and must have arrived here by half-past. The next thing I remember, I was running into the Solar and your father was sitting down to supper.”

“But it only takes ten minutes to walk back!” Malfoy said.

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged yet another look. “I know, darling,” she said.

There was something else she wasn’t telling them, wasn’t telling Malfoy, specifically. Harry could see it in the silent communication she shared with her husband and the way her right hand brushed too casually against her left side more than once.

“Have you tested the wards?” Malfoy asked his father.

“Repeatedly,” said Lucius.

“But that’s our land,” Malfoy said, gesturing out to the wheat field below. “That’s our tenant farmer and our wheat field and there are _wards_. How did— _what did that?_ How did it get _through_?

“Are you sure it’s…real?” asked Harry, uncomfortably. “I mean, not a hoax?”

“A hoax?” asked Lucius. “What do you mean?”

“These things—they’re called crop circles by Muggles—they’ve shown up all over England for years. Sometimes they turn out to be fakes, made by bored Muggle teenagers with some rope and a couple two-by-four planks.”

“If those are the hoaxes, then what is presumed to make the real ones, Mr Potter?” asked Narcissa.

This time, it was Harry who exchanged a look with Malfoy. “Extraterrestrials,” Harry said.

He watched Malfoy’s parents work out the etymology of that, and the way Narcissa’s face froze and Lucius’s mouth twisted once they did.

“People not of this earth,” Lucius said.

Harry nodded. “Other planets in the solar system, or perhaps even further than that.”

“The next closest star is entirely too far to Apparate to,” said Lucius, proving he’d paid better attention in Astronomy than had his son. “That’s impossible.”

“Did you see the paper this morning?” asked Malfoy. “Was there anything odd in it?”

“Not beyond the front page showing the Cannons’ tie with Puddlemere,” said Narcissa. “Which was quite an upset, but not terribly _upsetting_. Odd in what way?”

In response, Harry handed her the copy of the _Guardian_ he’d picked up off the ground at King’s Cross. It was covered in dirty footprints and wrinkled, but she accepted it without complaint. Narcissa scanned the page, her brow furrowing.

“Oh dear,” she said and passed the paper to her husband. “Draco, love, I want you to stay at Hogwarts. Don’t leave the grounds for any reason—“

“Me?!” Malfoy said. “These things got through the Manor wards! I don’t want either of you staying here a moment longer—“

“And just where would you have us go, Draco?” said Lucius, his eyes still following the article. “Your mother’s not allowed to leave the grounds and neither am I except for my...service.”

“It’s been twelve years,” Harry said. “How are you _still_ under house arrest?” he asked Narcissa.

She gave him a small smile. “Minister Yogg elected to extend my sentence upon his election. I have but three years to go, Mr Potter. I’m nearly there.”

“You didn’t even do anything,” Harry said, feeling wretched and abysmal, and that he should’ve done something to stop this travesty after the war, but Ginny’s pregnancy had come on so quickly—she’d been due nine months to the day after the end of the war. And then the...complications, and Harry had just not had the emotional stability to do more than show up for one day of trials, give his testimony for Draco and Narcissa, and return to Grimmauld Place, and Ginny. Ginny, who had taken to spending all her days stuffed up in the dreary library, staring out the window at London’s gloom and refusing to talk about anything. He’d never been so grateful to the Harpies for coming straight to the Burrow and asking after her directly.

Ten years playing pro—none of them married to Harry—and then assistant coaching and writing for the _Prophet’s_ sport section afterwards, had been exactly what she needed. Albus’s surprise birth three years into her tenure as a Harpy had helped heal them both, too.

Harry still wasn’t sure how they’d got drunk enough that night after their divorce to create Albus Severus, but he reckoned they were both ecstatic they had. And anyway, Luna had always been a very big fan of the Harpies, and, apparently, their Seeker.

“Just…stay inside,” Malfoy said, taking his mother’s hands.

She frowned, but nodded. “I have the tapestry I can work on, I suppose,” said Narcissa.

Malfoy looked relieved. He glanced at Harry. “Potter and I are going to figure this out. I promise.”

Harry rather thought that was an astronomically bigger promise than they could uphold, but he nodded just the same. He’d seen the elder Malfoys with the same looks on their faces once before. They’d been searching for Draco in a broken castle then. Now, Harry had Albus. He knew exactly how they felt.

*

Harry brought Malfoy back to Hogwarts after supper with Malfoy’s parents—something he never thought he’d experience. They walked up the gravel drive without speaking, and it felt singularly more unusual than speaking to Malfoy all day had. Now it felt uncanny and cold, just like the late October air. The windows in Hogwarts were all lit with jack-o-lanterns in preparation for the feast tomorrow night.

“I meant what I said. I really will help you, Malfoy. Even if I don’t believe we can fix this by ourselves, I’ll try.”

Malfoy gave him a wan smile. “Thanks, Potter. Delighted to have you yet again saving days...this time mine.”

Harry nodded, felt wholly inadequate with it, and added in an eye roll to round it out. “My pleasure, Malfoy.”

“Nothing like a little existential terror to bring people together, is there?” Malfoy mused.

Harry manfully refrained from rolling his eyes again. As it was, he was keeping his shit together with a wish and sheer bloodymindedness, and he rather felt he deserved at least a _little_ recognition for it. Almost against his own will, he looked back at the lights coming from the town of Hogsmeade.

Down on Thatch Cottage Lane, just past The Elegant Hag where Luna and Ginny sometimes stopped for dinner and a pint when Harry took Albus, his son would’ve been curling up to bed with a plush Erumpent and a politely worded demand for one of Auntie Hermione’s mystery books. Knowing the three of them were safe in Hogwarts tonight—and the foreseeable future—was the only reason Harry’s burlap sack of tangled emotions was not spilling out into the gravel and onto Malfoy’s dragon hide boots.

They split off at the stairs to the History Wing, Malfoy going on up to his tower of isolation and Harry turning down the corridor to his suite near the Infirmary—a grand joke from McGonagall, to be sure.

The portrait of Cliodna and her two Irish Red Setters perked up as he neared.

“Evening, Clio,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes. “If anyone hears you calling me that I will shove a boiling cauldron of moondew down your throat.”

“I’m not a portrait just yet,” he reminded her with a wink.

She rolled her eyes and returned to her book by the fire, but the dogs—Aoife and Alfric—waited for him to give the password before they joined her. He scratched his wand along both Setters’ chins in the correct pattern; they stretched in delight and his door swung open.

Inside, his room felt decidedly empty. Even Ms Danger was out, hopefully returning library books. The last thing he needed after the past two days was Irma Pince coming up to him at breakfast and reminding him—not in her library voice—that his mix-breed Demiguise had overdue books again. Staff did not get discounts on library fines.

Harry pointed his wand at the fireplace and got a fire going, the room almost immediately warming up, though it would take more than a fire to get the chill out of his bones tonight.

He took a moment to send a quick owl off to Dudley, reminding him to bring Harry’s favourite quill back for class tomorrow, and _did he want to stop down at the Elegant Hag for a pint after dinner?_ He really wished Dudley would come up to the castle, too, instead of holing up in his cottage in Hogsmeade. Dudley had rooms allotted to him, as a full-time professor at Hogwarts, but he preferred—he said—to keep his house in Hogsmeade so he could get his steps in and be easier to get ahold of by his mum.

Petunia had been fine, Harry thought, since Vernon’s cardiac arrest and subsequent death some years ago, but he imagined she must be pretty lonely. She’d sold the house in Little Whinging and bought a lovely little thing in Solihull with the life insurance payout. She’d never liked southerners, she told him over dinner the one and only time she invited him.

He put in an order with the kitchen for some shepherd’s pie, really needing something warm and comfort-foody tonight. Kreacher delivered it, looking two or three decades younger than he had when he was still living in Grimmauld. Harry had kept the house, but didn’t even stay there during the summers. He reckoned he’d give it to Teddy when he finished Hogwarts, as an inheritance all his own. And that reminded him he needed to be in touch with Andromeda about having that reno crew come in and start working.

“Does Master need anything further?” Kreacher croaked. “Or is Master satisfied with a single-course peasant supper and a cup of over-brewed tea?”

Harry sipped the tea. It was black and bitter. “Tea’s perfect, Kreach. Thanks for coming up so late.”

“Master knows Kreacher is a house-elf, and house-elves only need two hours of sleep per day, and that Kreacher’s scheduled rest period is between two and four each morning, and therefore was merely playing Bridge with the other kitchen elves, and also that Kreacher hates being called ‘Kreach’ but Master will continue to do it, anyway. May Kreacher get Master anything else?”

“No, thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said, giving him a smile. “This is great. Go finish your game.”

Kreacher popped away without another word.

He settled into his dinner feeling as though his body weighed a tonne. He took a bite, chewed, stared out the window, which was mostly blocked by the giant, flickering jack-o-lantern in it. There wasn’t much to see; the orange glow refracted off the glass prettily, but didn’t allow for much vision. With the fire in the hearth going as well, his rooms almost felt cozy tonight.

He’d always loved this room, filled as it was with warm wood floors and the most obnoxiously royal blue settee in the world. He took another bite of shepherd’s pie, sighing heavily once he’d swallowed.

His door opened as he was finishing the last of his tea—still perfectly hot because Kreacher was nothing if not a fantastic cook. He craned his neck to look, but there was no one there.

“Get your books turned in, love?” he called.

Ms Danger trotted in, her claws tapping gaily against the floor. The footsteps stopped in front of his ottoman, and then there was scratch, a jump, and an invisible mass landed on his lap, some sharp corner digging into his liver.

Ms Danger made herself visible and looked up at him with big, brown Springer Spaniel eyes. Her fur, now a warm, auburn and white wave, was soft against his hands as she pushed her head into his palm. The book she had in her mouth dug further into his gut, but at least it wasn’t the one on Animagi that was due this week.

“You want a story?” he asked, smirking.

She could read perfectly well, but, much like Albus, liked to have it done for her sometimes. She dropped the book in his lap, stood to circle his legs a bit, and then settled in. Harry finished off his tea and set the cup on the table. It disappeared immediately. He cracked open the book and was going to skip right past the table of contents, but she barked at him and he turned back with a sigh.

“Chapter one: Early Celtics and Free Magical Societies. Chapter two: The Rise of Christianity and Magical Condemnation. Chapter three: Social Change Leading to the Statute of Secrecy—“

He broke off to look down at her. She ignored him, staring at the page. “You’ve been following the newspapers, haven’t you? You sure you want to read _more_ of this drivel?”

She growled, and he sighed, returning to the book. “Chapter four: 1689 and the Beginnings of the Statute of Secrecy…”

They read through the first two chapters before Ms Danger was snoring softly on his lap and he was nodding off himself. He glanced at the mantel. The portrait with the half-finished Scotties was still empty.

He hadn’t heard from Snape in a while and found himself really wishing the man was here tonight. The clock showed half past one. Harry grimaced, knowing he was still going to have to be up early to take Albus, who’d be overly excited by the prospect of trick-or-treating in Hogsmeade and then to his Gran’s for the annual Weasley Halloween dinner, and _then_ to Honeydukes for their annual Chocolate Bash.

Harry always took his son on Halloween, just so he’d have someone happy to spend the day with, but he wasn’t looking forward to the six AM wake-up call he’d no doubt get tomorrow. Not after this day.

He set the book aside and cuddled Ms Danger, standing on stiff legs. He walked them to the bedroom and set her down on her side of the bed. She grumbled, went invisible, and immediately kicked herself under the blankets. Harry crawled into bed, flicked his wand at the torches, and the room went dark.

Having a mutt to sleep with at night helped keep the empty-bed syndrome at bay, but it wasn’t as good as sleeping with another person. Those years with Ginny, even after things had fallen apart, at least gave him someone to spoon against. Ms Danger’s fur was incredibly soft, but she also wasn’t visible most of the time, and only weighed a stone and a half besides. Hardly a substantial presence.

Harry drifted off with the deep, heavy sleepiness of one who’d not slept in days, listening to the sounds of his Demi-dog’s invisible, whiffling breaths.

*


	12. Chapter 12

Harry woke suddenly. The room was pitch black and the sheets were cold on the dog’s side. He lay absolutely still, as he’d learnt to do in his brief stint in Auror training, and just listened. There was nothing there. No sound, no movement, no light showing beyond his eyelids. But something was off.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Still as death.

“Miss?” he called.

There was no answer. She’d probably woken up to read more of her book. Demiguises were nocturnal and she had bouts of insomnia sometimes when that half of her gene pool warred with the Spaniel half. But there was no light filtering in from the sitting room.

Suddenly, he felt another presence in the room and his body went stiff with terror. He couldn’t move his legs, his arms. He could barely draw breath. He’d been afraid before, but never like this, never physically unable to move even a finger. Harry began to struggle, feeling as if he were in a nightmare and surely he’d wake up soon.

He called out again, for whom he had no idea. But it made no difference; he’d warded his room against sound escaping years ago, when he was still having regular nightmares of the war. Everything was so black, like a void, like the underside of that ship he’d seen over St James Park, and suddenly, he felt tears leaking from his eyes and his heart had tripled in beats. A pair of bright, eerie blue eyes flashed open behind the door, and Harry locked his with them, unable to look away.

“Miss?” he called. “Miss, get help!”

But Ms Danger didn’t move from her spot behind the door, didn’t even blink. Her eyes were fixed on something else, something invisible in Harry’s room, and then he felt a cold, clammy hand with impossibly long fingers touch his face and he screamed and screamed. He began to float up from the bed, struggling against his nightmare paralysis. The blue eyes shining in the corner grew and rose taller and then there was a ferocious roar and they were coming right at him.

Ms Danger leapt from the corner and onto the bed in one, strong jump. He heard, rather than saw, her sharp canine teeth clamping down into flesh, and there was an inhuman shriek. But she didn’t stop. Something hot and wet splattered across his face and when it touched his tongue, he tasted sour blood. Ms Danger’s shining blue eyes flashed as she bit down hard and shook her head like a wolf killing prey. The shrieks ratcheted up and then there was a call, a desperate-sounding yell in a language he’d never heard.

And then a flash of green light that made him sick to his stomach.

And then nothing. Silence.

His body relaxed with an ache he’d never felt before in his life. Ms Danger was panting hard, little whimpering sounds coming from her as her body shrank back down to its normal size, and she rushed him, jumping in his arms and licking his neck and face everywhere she could reach. He grabbed her and bolted from the bed, his whole body trembling with fear.

He sprinted up the stairs, across the bridge that led to the Transfiguration Wing and skidded to a halt in front of Luna’s rooms. Harry didn’t even bother knocking. He panted out the password and shoved himself in before the portrait had fully opened.

He rushed to Albus’s room and snicked open the door as quietly as he could. Ms Danger was still invisible, still panting in his arms, but he only had eyes for the bed, and his only living son sleeping peacefully there.

Harry let out a relieved sigh, and then immediately felt two wands pressing into the back of his neck.

“Harry?” Ginny whispered. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he replied, just as quietly.

He turned, the wand points dragging across his skin as he did so, and gave Ginny and Luna an exhausted, tiny smile. Luna’s eyes were hard in the dim light of their suite, and they didn’t soften for several seconds. She nodded and the women lowered their wands.

Luna put an arm around his shoulder and led him out of Al’s bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind them. She flicked a silencing spell at the door.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Harry?” Ginny asked, exasperated. “It’s gone four in the morning!”

“There was—there was something—” And then, like a complete twat, Harry’s whole face crumpled and he felt the tears from earlier spilling out again. He squeezed Ms Danger closer to himself and rocked her back and forth as she whimpered invisibly against him.

“Oh my god, Harry!” Ginny said, leading him to the settee. _“What’s wrong?”_

She pushed him into it and sat down next to him, Luna cuddling in on his other side.

“Fuck, sorry,” he whispered, wiping at his eyes. “I’m just…fuck, I’ve never been so scared in my life. There was something in my room, just now. It put me in a Body Bind of some kind and started levitating me from the bed, and then Ms Danger attacked it and it left, and all I could think about was making sure you were all safe, especially Al, and—”

His face crumpled again, but he manfully managed to restrain himself to a couple of snotty sniffs and hiccoughing breaths.

“Oh my god, Harry,” Ginny said, her voice strangled with alarm.

She was staring at Luna across him and he could practically feel the unspoken communication between them. It was something they’d never managed together. Luna stood and went to the hearth, lighting the fire and calling down for some tea.

And then Ginny gasped and jumped away from him. “Harry, what is that?!” she shrieked.

He looked down, through the invisible dog on his lap to his naked chest beneath, where there was a huge, smeared streak of black, black blood. He swallowed.

“It’s from the…the thing. Ms Danger attacked it.”

“Did she _See_ it?” Luna asked, and Harry knew by the stress on that word that she didn’t mean with Ms Danger’s eyes.

He nodded. “Her eyes went blue and she transformed.”

Luna exchanged another speaking look with Gin. “We need to get a sample of that to Fleur and Theo for testing.”

Harry grimaced, but nodded. Fleur hated being woken up early, but he rather thought she’d find this an acceptable reason.

“I’ll call them up,” Ginny said.

Harry swallowed. “Call…call Malfoy, too.” Ginny raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. “We’ve been looking into aliens and UFOs together, trying to see if we can figure out why they’re here.”

Ginny nodded while Luna went back to Al’s door, opened it so they could all keep an eye on him, and recast the silencing ward over the doorframe.

Harry just sat there, on Luna’s patchwork-blue settee, and rubbed Ms Danger’s back. She still hadn’t made herself visible yet and he didn’t blame her. If he could hide as well as she could, he would.

Some time later, Fleur and Theodore Nott exited the flames, potions kits in hand. By then, the barest beginnings of daybreak were lighting up outside. It was Halloween.

Fleur took one look at him and made a face reminiscent of Narcissa Malfoy.

“Harry, what is all over you?” she asked, aghast.

The Floo flared to life again and this time, Malfoy entered. Once more, and out came the Headmistress.

Nott peered at Harry’s chest with unvoiced academic curiosity. “What are you holding?” he asked, noticing Harry’s arms curled around an invisible object.

“My dog,” he said. “She’s half-Demiguise.”

“Where on earth did you get half a dog with half a Demiguise?” said Malfoy, who was also paying close attention to the smear of blood on Harry’s chest.

“I tripped over her in Knockturn when I was in Auror training. She was only a month old then and could stay visible long enough not to get stepped on.”

“Illegal breeding scheme,” Nott murmured. He raised an eyebrow at Malfoy. “You remember those from your youth, eh?”

“Oh, fuck off, Theo,” said Malfoy. “Lucius’s Abraxans were all fully registered and so are Mother’s Dalmatians.”

The two Potions Masters—or Mistress, in Fleur’s case—needed to get at the sample on his chest, so, reluctantly, Harry took Ms Danger in to curl up with Albus. She snuggled in under Al’s blankets, and Harry felt marginally better that his son wasn’t alone, open door or not.

Then he sat back and let the other teachers inspect him.

Fleur and Theo siphoned off bits of gooey, black blood from his skin, talking in low voices all the while. They scanned the rest of his body and found more blood in his hair and on his pyjama bottoms. Then they went into Al’s room and quietly scanned Ms Danger, too. Harry was frankly amazed the boy hadn’t woken up yet, even with the quieting charms on his room. Luna had probably spelled him to sleep.

By now, Harry was clean of the creature’s blood and the other Heads of Houses—Hannah for Hufflepuff and Pansy for Slytherin—had been summoned by the Headmistress. Ron and Hermione came over after dropping the kids off with Molly, looking alarmed and exhausted.

“Harry,” Hermione said, sitting next to him, her knees turned to his thighs, her hands squeezing one of his. “What the _fuck_ happened last night?”

And so he launched into the full story, recounting every paralysed, horrifying moment to those assembled. Hermione’s hands tightened around his when he told them how he’d been unable to move even a finger, like a Full Body Bind, though his skin had tingled in a way that was wholly unlike the spell. He caught himself watching Malfoy several times during the story, seeing his face go even whiter.

Ginny gave him one of her oversized Harpies tees to wear once he was done and he slipped it on gratefully, having not even realised how cold he was until he wasn’t anymore. Ms Danger trotted out fully visible then, her eyes back to brown and her fur red and white and wavy. Fleur, who’d never seen her visible, and Hannah and Pansy who’d never seen her at all, cooed appropriately over her beautiful features and her brave rescue.

Near six, after several fortifying rounds of tea, and after Malfoy had rushed out to check on Scorpius and returned, the other professors cleared out of Gin and Luna’s rooms.

Save for Malfoy, who took advantage of the smaller crowd to come take the chair opposite Harry. He sat, leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees and his pale eyes shining.

“People from the UFOs,” he said.

Across the room, Ginny shuddered, and even Luna looked uneasy. They were finally starting to take it seriously.

Harry hesitated, nodded. “I never saw him—it. But I _felt_ its body against mine when Ms Danger tackled it.”

“What did it feel like?” Luna asked.

“Cold,” Harry said, immediately. “It's skin was ice cold and clammy, like death. And it was tall and thin, stringy muscle. It was wearing clothes but the fabric felt strange.”

“What do they _want_ from us?” Malfoy asked. They’d asked the same question yesterday at the library, but were no closer to an answer now.

Harry opened his mouth to answer—

“It’s Halloween!”

Harry jumped. “Hey, kid,” he said to Albus, and held his arms out for him. Al took a running jump into Harry’s lap beamed up at him with sleep-rumpled hair.

“It’s my favourite day, Mum Three!”

Harry refrained from cringing. “I know, Al. What costume did Luna make for you this year?”

Al leaned in, as if sharing a huge secret, and said, “I’m going to be a Demiguise like Ms Danger! Luna made me a doggo costume and Mum nicked your Invisible Cloak from your room, but don’t tell her I told on her.”

“Did she,” Harry said, lifting an eyebrow in Ginny’s direction. Albus was not as quiet as he liked to think he was. Ginny shrugged helplessly, mouthed, ‘We didn’t have time.’

Harry rolled his eyes and turned back to his son. “Ready for breakfast? The elves will have pumpkin pasties out to dunk in your tea.”

“YES!” Albus screamed, causing Harry to wince.

He jumped down from Harry’s lap and seemed to finally take note of the assembled group in the room. “Oh, hi! Are you here for Halloween?”

“Yep!” Ginny said right away. “We were just talking about our favourite Halloween breakfasts. Want to come get some grub with Mummy?”

“Yep,” Al said, seriously.

Gin reached out for him and he took her hand, waving bye to Harry and Luna. On her way by, Ginny gave Harry a look he remembered well from their marriage—one that said they’d be talking later. Luna followed, but bent down to rest her hand against Harry’s cheek.

She looked at him for several long, uncomfortable moments, and said, “They’re as real as we are.”

When she left, Harry was shuddering. He glanced up from his place on Luna’s indigo patchwork settee and gave Malfoy a tight smile. Malfoy, who was sitting in Gin’s favourite chair, one leg crossed wide over the other, hands steepled before him like he’d been watching Sherlock on BBC.

“What do they want?” Malfoy said, after a long moment. His fingers were still steepled.

Harry laughed, wondered if he was truly losing it. “Have you seen _Independence Day_?”

Malfoy grimaced. “A film?”

Harry nodded. “I’d suggest you watch it, but I suspect it would scare the pants off you right now.”

Malfoy didn’t immediately disagree with him or posture, which said more about his state of mind than words could’ve. Suddenly, he stood, gestured for Harry to get up.

“Come on, Potter.”

“Where’re we going?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “We’re going to secure a meeting with the Queen of Atlantis, teach four classes apiece, and then you’re going to have the elves set my son up to sleep with yours and that Demiguise until further notice.”

“Is Astoria going to like that?” Harry wondered.

He doubted he’d be able to convince Gin to let Al sleep in his quarters right now—she wouldn’t want him out of her sight—but Malfoy was right: Harry would be having Ms Danger sleep with him until this was sorted.

If it were _ever_ sorted.

He stood, Ginny’s Harpies tee pulling across his shoulders as he stretched. Malfoy looked everywhere but at him. It was seven in the morning. If they hurried, he could grab an espresso from the staff room before his first class. But it was going to take more than that to get him through this shitshow of a day. Merlin, he hated Halloween.

*

Malfoy led him into the dungeons, past Nott’s and Fleur’s Potions Labs, the Slytherin Common Room entrance, and Parkinson’s Head of House quarters. They stopped in front of another door, one Harry hadn’t been through in nearly twenty years.

Malfoy pressed his hand to the stone and it slid away at his touch.

“Oh, come on!” Harry said. “We’ve been friends for over ten years and he still hasn’t attached me to his bloody office wards.”

Malfoy glanced over his shoulder, unimpressed. “He’s dead, moron. He can’t add you. I’ve had access since first year.”

“Suck up,” Harry muttered.

“He was my godfather,” Malfoy said, more quietly. “My mother’s best friend for many years.”

Harry blinked. He would’ve thought Lucius, if anyone. But—Narcissa? Snape really hadn’t done well with male companionship, had he? Harry supposed he could get that; wizards were dicks sometimes. Malfoy a prime example.

“Oh.”

Harry followed Malfoy in, and the room was so dark it was like Malfoy’s hair was the only thing that reflected light, the only bright point in a dusty, damp abyss. He whispered a word, the barest hint, and light radiated out from the stones, its origin invisible. Harry felt a little thrill of—something—at the display. Malfoy could do wandless magic.

“Severus,” Malfoy said, his voice firm.

He looked around the room, his eyes narrowed beneath his strangely dark lashes. Harry followed more warily, unable to look at anything but Malfoy. They came to Snape’s desk, still covered in essays he’d been marking That Night, a pot of dried red ink off to the side, a splatter so dark it looked like blood. Had Snape really never returned to this office when he became Headmaster?

No, Harry realised, seeing the differences, subtle though they were. He _had_ been here; he’d cleared out a number of potions and books. He just hadn’t cared about returning the marking. Harry glanced down at the parchment on top. Padma Patil. How long had she been waiting to find out she got an O on that DADA assignment?

There was a rustle of sound from behind them, and Harry spun around, his heart hammering.

Behind him, Malfoy huffed out a laugh, but it was somehow less biting than usual. Harry felt like a twat, but he rather thought he deserved a little jumpiness today of all days.

“Draco,” came Snape’s low, drawling voice.

The lights brightened further still and Harry could make out the painting now. He remembered it from his school days: an empty potions lab, stocked with an endless supply of any ingredient, tool, or cauldron any wizard could want. And a fully stocked bar in the corner.

Snape’s eyes flicked over. “Potter. What an auspicious surprise.”

He didn’t sound at all like he thought it was auspicious.

“So this is where you hide.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “My death does not somehow negate my own agency, Potter. I am allowed to entertain myself in ways that don’t include your whinging.”

“Severus, we need another meeting with the Queen,” said Malfoy. “Alone, this time.”

Snape turned to him, lifted an eyebrow. “And I need a body that feels inebriation, but life—and death—remain unfair, a lesson I regret I never managed to instil in you.”

“You’ve been in Atlantis for weeks,” Malfoy said, ignoring him. “I know you’ve developed a…camaraderie.”

“That’s quite a logical leap, Draco,” said Snape. “After all, I am just an oil painting—one in a very small and gaudy frame at that, in Atlantis.”

“A gaudy oil painting who knew more about what was going to happen, what we were going to see, than any of the living did. I wonder how, Sev, you seemed to almost anticipate something was coming?”

Snape said nothing, his face perfectly blank. “One sees signs,” he said at length.

“What signs?” Harry exploded. “ _What signs_ , Snape? I was nearly _abducted_ last night. They’re here, and they want something, and the Queen seems to have an idea of what, if her ‘we all need to work together Sorting Hat song and dance’ bullshit was any indication, so we need to talk to her!”

This time, Snape couldn’t maintain the illusion of boredom. “An abduction attempt? Potter, you cannot—“

“He’s serious,” said Malfoy, his voice strained. “There was…some kind of blood. The Demiguise mutt attacked it and scared it off. Potter was covered in this sour, stinking, black blood. Theo and Fleur Delacour-Weasley are testing it now.”

Snape looked far too intrigued for Harry’s liking. It was times like these he wished he were dead and carefree, too. Snape studied Harry as if he were looking for remains of the blood he could sample.

“The Queen, Severus,” Malfoy grit out.

Snape looked back at him. “Scorpius?”

“With Astoria, under fifty different wards,” Draco said. “And I’m moving him into Potter’s son’s room with the Demiguise until further notice.”

Snape nodded. Then said, “I will ask Her Majesty for an audience on your behalf. I know she keeps Thursday evenings clear for her own use, so you may anticipate an invitation for that time—although with the shift in tensions amongst Muggle nations, she may be too busy. If she accepts, her office will supply a Portkey for travel. Expect a letter by tomorrow evening with the decision.”

He left the painting then, leaving them once again in the dead air of his abandoned office.

Harry glanced at Malfoy, saw him looking back, and felt a sudden rush of gratitude and— _something_ —for Malfoy, for taking him seriously, believing him. Gin believed him, and Luna, and Hermione and probably Ron, but Harry didn’t think they got it like Malfoy did. They weren’t on edge like Harry was, feeling so unlike himself he could barely function. And he still had to teach class.

“Malfoy…” Harry said, hearing his voice grate against his vocal cords like he hadn’t used it in years.

Malfoy’s eyes were shining in the low light. His mouth was set, his eyes forced narrower than normal, to hide, Harry realised, the obvious look of fear he’d have otherwise.

“Yes?”

“You believed me,” Harry said.

“Of course I believed you, idiot. I saw the internet stories just like you did.”

Harry took a step closer, trying to see Malfoy’s expression better. At some point, Malfoy’s normal expression had changed from poshly blank to forced. Harry tried to pinpoint the exact moment the change happened, and realised it was when Atlantis had appeared, the explosion.

The entire magical world had been nervous after that, but a failed Obliviation later, when Muggles still remembered, but hadn’t bothered to guess ‘magic,’ they’d gone back to their lives. Re-settled into their routines. Retreated back into magical society and magical newspapers that largely ignored the other strange happenings that came after Atlantis.

The uptick in crop circles, the missing people, the cattle mutilations, and the…sighting. It was reported on, but people were still uncomfortably laughing it off.

Magical people remained ignorant of most of the tension in the Muggle world. And happy to be so. Harry knew Hermione would be bringing the news of his abduction straight to the ICW today; he knew she’d yell and cite reports until they refocused their efforts on the real threat. He didn’t think she’d be very successful. He didn’t think he and Malfoy would, either.

But Malfoy—Malfoy had not tried to ignore it. He had not gone back to his routine. Like Harry, he’d known something was not right from the start.

And right then, in that moment, there in the low light of a dusty, dead office, Harry knew no one was going to get it like Malfoy did. Malfoy had believed him first. And that made Malfoy important.

*


	13. Chapter 13

Draco’s students remained subdued all Halloween day, despite the promise of a feast, sweets, and fancy dress later in the evening. He went through his planned lesson, teaching his seventh years about the Time Magic spells Atlantis had been famous for, but even DIY Time-Turners from history didn’t perk them up.

Frankly, Draco was annoyed. This was his star lesson.

The Portkey came at lunch, delivered inconspicuously by a standard-issue British post owl. He was already feeling better about this decision; the Queen of Atlantis obviously had more subtlety than the British Ministry.

He and Potter sneaked out of the castle while the students and other professors were scarfing down sweets (and mead, in the case of the professors). They met on the stairs in front of the castle. It felt illicit and youthful, something Draco had not felt since before the war, and certainly not since Scorpius’s birth. Potter had his old Gryffindor scarf wrapped around his neck and a snug-fitting black leather jacket on, which certainly wasn’t helping matters. Although it did look rather warm. Draco was suddenly regretting dressing for the Atlantean climate and not the British one.

“You got the Portkey?” Potter immediately asked.

“Of course,” Draco said, generously refraining from adding ‘idiot’ to the end.

He pulled the conch shell from his robes pocket and held it out. A bit of sand still stuck to the edges, and it fell away as the last of an October wind caught it, reminding Draco sharply of Time-Turners. He wondered, then, if that was the connection to the Sands of Time, if it had been the shores of Atlantis all along.

“Five seconds,” he said.

Potter grabbed on, his fingers, bared at the tips in his gloves, touching Draco’s knuckles around the shell and sending a strange shiver down his torso. The Portkey activated and they were swept away. They didn’t spin; it felt like he was being dragged backwards at great speed, his hair blowing across his eyes and his clothing pulling away, until they came to an abrupt stop.

Their Portkey landed with such force that his feet sank into the wet sand. This was not modern magic—it achieved the same result as modern magic did, but worked in a fundamentally different way. Somehow more primal and closer to the earth than the magic they used in Portkeys these days. He wished he had time to study it more.

Draco’s legs were wobbly, like after an afternoon of Quidditch practice, and he grimaced, remembering just how long it’d been since he’d engaged in that degree of physical activity.

Draco smoothed down his robes and looked around, checked to make sure Potter had also made it here in one piece—he had, though his clothing and hair were in more disarray than usual.

“Alright, Malfoy?” Potter asked, sounding a little dazed. He ran a hand through his hair and it really didn’t help at all. Potter was a walking cliché of bedhead.

“Yes, quite,” said Draco.

He pursed his lips. This Portkey had brought them much closer to the Queen’s residence than the one the ICW had finagled together. They were on the shore, but within a semi-circle courtyard that stretched to the sea, where it was left open to the sea. The half-circle wall around them was sandstone, with creeping vines crawling up the sides and over the tops. The gardens were decorated with stones and shells. There was sand everywhere.

Draco re-cast Penelope Clearwater’s translation spell on them both, even though he knew the resulting migraine would be agonising.

“Welcome, once again, to Atlantis.”

Draco turned. Queen Sostrate stood mere feet behind them, quiet and still as the courtyard itself. Draco was annoyed he’d not heard her come upon them.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.

Potter dipped his head, murmured something that sounded appropriate in tone, if not word. The Queen turned to lead them into her receiving room and Draco shot Potter a look.

“Severus has told me much about the world since my people and I left it,” Sostrate said, leading them in. Her black hair was braided down her back, nearly reaching her hips, and her robes were the same clean, burgundy linen as the first time they’d come.

Draco put all of this to memory, taking in every single detail, knowing he’d watch these memories a thousand times in his family Pensieve, just to learn everything he could about the civilisation he’d so loved since his childhood.

“What did you think of the tale, Ma’am?” Potter asked.

Sostrate hummed, shook her head. “I found much of it hard to believe. Please join me in my meeting room.”

The Queen brought them into the same meeting room as before, only this time Draco’s heart had settled its beat enough for him to see it wasn’t just a meeting room. It was a war room. The walls beyond the room dividers were covered in maps of the ancient world—maps that were startlingly accurate, maps that showed the exact shoreline of Antarctica— _beneath_ the ice shelf. Two Cane Corsos slept beneath an open window.

Sostrate gestured to a seating area with two lush chairs and a much more extravagant one, decorated in gilded shells and arms shaped like the tentacles of a kraken. There were four guards spread out against the semicircle wall.

The Queen sat, then gave them a smile. “Please sit.”

Beside them, a seascape shown from the bow of a great ship drew Draco’s attention. Severus came into the frame, looking remarkably tanned. A Scottish Terrier followed him in, and Draco heard Potter choke beside him. Draco shot him an incredulous look. They were meeting with ancient royalty for fuck’s sake.

“Hello Draco, Potter,” said Severus.

Draco swallowed, nodded at his godfather. He had not realised how much he valued Severus’s presence and advice until this moment, when he had it at his fingertips again.

He’d felt like that every September in school, and again the night he’d returned to Hogwarts to teach. Severus was like that—slipping in and out of one’s mind like water, as if even the memory of him was Legilimency, and it was impossible to miss it until one realised what life had been like with it gone.

“Professor,” Potter murmured, surprisingly circumspect.

“Thank you for meeting with us again, Your Majesty,” said Draco. “We recognise how busy you are and are grateful for an audience.”

She gave them a small smile, her eyes heavy. “I would not have, were it not for Severus’s counsel. He has explained much of the strange thinking of modern people, which does not excuse the behaviour of your compatriots, but does explain it.” She seemed to think for a moment, chuckled, and added, “I hope this meeting will be a welcome reprieve from the sudden aggression of the rest of the world.”

Draco winced, tried to hide it.

Potter didn’t bother trying. He laughed, self-deprecating, and said, “Ma’am, even I don’t understand their ways. Nevertheless, I was embarrassed by it, and I apologise on behalf of all of us.”

Potter crossed his legs, leant forward in his chair in a way that made Draco want the same focus and attention given to him. Potter was all-or-nothing; he cared immensely, or not at all. “Your return to the world—to this time—was not a coincidence, was it? Other things are happening, and even the Muggles have made that connection, although I hope they’re making the wrong one.”

“No, it was not a coincidence,” she agreed. She didn’t comment on the rest.

Potter nodded. He was very good at getting straight to a point. “There’s something _else_ —something not of our world—here, isn’t there?”

Sostrate’s mouth tightened, her eyes flickered to Severus’s portrait, and then back to Potter. “Yes. You saw them?”

“We saw their…vehicle. I think that’s why Muggles have become suspicious of your country,” Potter said. He swallowed. “And then one of them came to my bedroom last night—it did something to me. I _couldn’t move_.”

The Queen’s face paled. “So soon,” she murmured.

“May I ask—who are they, Your Majesty?” asked Draco. “Where are they from?”

“From my discussions with Her Majesty,” Severus spoke up, “we believe we’ve determined they’re from the… _Sirius_ star system.” His lip curled, even painted. “Which does not surprise me. Most nuisances arise from Sirius.”

Potter’s eyes went huge, but Severus continued before he could interrupt.

“But it does not matter where they come from,” said Severus, now idly scratching the Scottie’s ears as he gazed off into the middle distance. “It only matters that they’re here.”

“Why are they here then, Snape?” said Potter, mouth pressed firmly together. “Why now, and not any time before?”

Severus exchanged a look with the Queen.

She said, “Ah, but they _have_ been here all along. It is only that they thought they’d solved their problem with our kind when Atlantis disappeared.”

“What problem with our kind? Do you mean people? The human race?” asked Draco.

“The problem of magic, of course,” said the Queen. She reached for a small shell-shaped bell on the table next to her and rang it. Immediately, a house-elf appeared, though this one was strange: brown-skinned, delicate of feature, much more like the elves of lore than the ungainly house-elves of modern day.

“My Queen?” asked the elf.

“Please bring us some hydromeli and figs, Galene.”

Draco nearly self-combusted. _Actual_ hydromeli, served by the _actual_ Queen of Atlantis. This was every one of his first-year dreams coming to life.

“As my Queen commands,” said the elf, and popped away.

A moment later, she appeared with a gold tray of honey-water and fruits and cheeses with honey. Draco idly wondered why she didn’t conjure it herself, but did not presume to question a queen. Narcissa had raised him better than that.

“I will tell you a story,” said Queen Sostrate, watching the house-elf pour three goblets of honey-water and place figs and cheese on golden plates.

“When this planet was new, they were already ancient. They saw a world ripe for life and came to it, seeking to save their own. Theirs was a civilisation so old it had lost its purpose, and they had been travellers among the stars so long they had lost their forms.

“Star travel,” she added, “is not like earthly travel—the ground doesn’t anchor one to it like the earth does, and muscles grow weak, skin grows frail. Many generations later, they were unrecognisable.”

She took a sip of hydromeli, easing her throat, and continued: “They came to the earth with pieces of their race—tiny things that grow our bones and blood, that make daughters look like mothers—and they planted them in the boiling swamps and fiery cradles of our nascent earth. As the planet aged and cooled, our seeds grew and changed with it.

“We developed—all human, animal, and plant life—because they made it so. We are made by them, from them. In the shape they once had—the shape of their renaissance, their ideal. We are here to fix the errors they made, to provide counterweight to their small pieces, so their children can in time retake the forms they had before they went among the stars.”

Draco chanced a glance at Potter; his mouth was gaping open, his full lips a picture of astonishment. Draco, for once, could not blame him. He was maintaining an even expression through Narcissa’s hard-learned lessons alone. In his chest, his heart stuttered over a handful of beats before finding its rhythm again; the sensation was uncomfortable and worrying.

“How could you possibly know this?” Potter finally asked, making Draco pale in horror at his lack of respect for a sitting monarch.

Queen Sostrate graciously ignored the slight.

“I have met them, of course. There is more to this story: When humans began to slowly attain the bodies and minds our creators desired, they chose the best of many to begin work on the cities they would come to inhabit. They took the most elegant of figure, the keenest of mind, the strongest and the most artistic, and brought them to an island to breed together.

“But it was not fast enough. Generations went by and while humans on the island were growing stronger, smarter, lither, their own forms were growing thinner, weaker, their senses dulling. So they began to change us, making small adjustments to us that would hasten the process, and when they reached the form and mind they desired, they duplicated that person, so that they might be more available for making children like them.”

“Cloning,” Potter whispered, and Draco knew the literal meaning of the word, but not the emotion behind it when Potter used it.

He frowned.

Potter said, “So there are many versions of the same person in Atlantis?”

Sostrate gave them a sad smile. “Not any longer.”

She didn’t elaborate.

Draco barely refrained from fidgeting. He’d not felt so keyed up since his first Quidditch game at Hogwarts. He sipped his drink, trying to focus on the flavour of it, savour the history and how different the honey here was from that in England.

Draco asked her, “Are they the reason you hid Atlantis, Ma’am?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“And the reason you have returned?” he pressed.

Once again, she nodded.

“They aren’t—they aren’t friendly anymore, are they?” asked Potter. He looked haunted.

One of the Cane Corsos woke suddenly, stared out the window, whining low in it’s throat.

The Queen snapped her head towards it, her mouth parting. She spoke to the dog in a low voice, the words so like growling to Draco’s ears as to be unintelligible to the translation spell. The dog looked at her, whined once more, and quieted. When she turned back to them, her face was solemn.

“It is magic,” she said. “When they made us, we were meant to correct their race’s defects so they might integrate with us and live on this earth, instead of aboard their starships, as they had done for thousands of years.

“But there was something different in our earth—something they didn’t have in their own. The earth’s own magic. There is a great deal of it here in Atlantis—even those without the use of magic can see and feel it. The exposure to it caused some of us to be born or duplicated with magic ourselves, and that was…that was unexpected and dangerous. Something they could not abide.

“My mother was one of the first to show it,” Sostrate said. “They killed her for it, thinking it some defect in her blood. My father, the King, hid me in the caves below the island before they could learn of my own magic, while he negotiated with the Creators—that he would personally execute any non-standard humans in his kingdom, so long as they let him carry out the law himself, as King.

“But he did not execute anyone; he saw that our Creators were no longer just a people looking to save themselves, but a people so afraid, so paranoid, that they’d become the monsters they feared. My father set out to find every single person with magic in his kingdom, and bring them together to create a shield between us, so they would not be able to see our magic.”

Draco had forgotten his figs, his hydromeli, and his own name. His blood was ice cold. This could not be truth. And yet, Sostrate continued:

“The shield worked for a time. We sailed across the waters, searching for other cities like our own. We found the first Mayans and developed good trade with them. Our civilisation flourished, our people grew strong and bright, and children were made only from parents, and not duplicates.

“I stayed out of sight, spending nearly all my time in the caves below with other magical people, and we created spells and rituals, learned to augment time and space. It was nine hundred years before my father died and I ascended.”

“Sorry, did you say nine hundred?” asked Potter.

Draco was too stunned to even be horrified by it.

Queen Sostrate looked at him curiously. “Yes, is that uncommon?”

“I think, my lady,” came Severus’s low voice, “that they are unaware of the inherent technical immortality of Atlantean.”

Her expression cleared. “Those of us who were altered, or made from altered humans, do not age and die naturally…or at least, it’s rare that we do. It is a curse upon us, but has allowed for much time for study and many great advances in technology and magic.”

“You’re not the same as the rest of us, then,” said Potter. “Not exactly.”

“No,” she said. “We developed in isolation, though we are still related. People with magic in your world came about it the same way we did, but you were less noticeable to the Creators, developing as slowly as you did, and spared the alterations and scrutiny.”

“Your Majesty,” said Draco, finding his voice again. “Why did Atlantis disappear? If your father had a ward to keep them from seeing magic, what happened?”

She sighed. “The day of my coronation was a festival day. People came from all over the island to eat and drink and sing. But with them, they brought children with the earth’s magic in them, and those children, all gathered in one place together, overwhelmed the shield.

“It fell that day, and the Creators saw our truth, saw that magic had proliferated so that almost half of our youth had it and it would be even more within a few generations. They sailed in from the stars and began eliminating those with magic.”

She shook her head. “I could not let my people die. We hid in the caves, and my counsel and I created a spell—one that would let us truly escape. But as with any magic in the fourth dimension, escape could only be had for a time. We would have to return eventually, and the reprieve would not come for free. The spell we created took Atlantis out of time and space entirely; for nearly twelve thousand years, we were frozen on another plane all alone, our lives suspended, while our creators saw only the tsunamis coming to drown our land beneath the sea.

“They thought we’d destroyed ourselves with magic because that was always their fear…that magic and technology could never mix without destruction.

“Then the Sands of Time ran out; something alerted the Creators to the presence of magic on this earth again, and they have now turned their eyes back from their attempts to fix their race to look upon it. Once again, they’ve seen that the earth still supports magic, and therefore, is not the world they desired when they began their project. They need this earth and the humans in it, but they will not share it with magic.

“Magic brought us back because it is also our fight,” she finished.

“The War,” Potter said, awed. “Voldemort.”

There was a hiss from the painting, and Draco couldn’t help being darkly amused that even in death, Severus couldn’t stand to hear the Dark Lord’s name. The amusement saved him from the mind-bending trepidation Queen Sostrate’s story instilled in him.

“Yes, Potter,” said Severus. “Astute as always. Since wizard-kind has been organised enough to be noticeable by them, we have been hidden behind wards. The Dark Lord breached those wards during the war. They saw magic and have come to eradicate it.”

“Eradicate,” Draco whispered. “Surely—surely not?”

“It is dangerous to them,” said the Queen. “Technology and magic—those are two things that can destroy worlds. It only took technology for them to destroy their own; they do not want to adapt to a world only to have to leave it again.”

“Well they can’t fucking adapt _here_ ,” said Potter.

Draco’s eyes widened but the Queen didn’t seem to know the word to be offended by it.

Potter continued, “If they wanted this planet they should’ve settled in before they made us. It’s ours now.”

“Quite right, Mr Potter,” said the Queen. “I do not intend to let them have it now that they have given it to us.”

“But we can’t—how the hell are we going to fight them?” said Draco, forgetting himself.

She cocked her head to the side. “Humanity has both technology and magic now.”

“Can’t you use the same spell you used on Atlantis to hide all of the earth?” asked Potter.

She shook her head. “Not without modification—otherwise, we would all cease to exist until magic brought us out again. I wasn’t lying when you first came to me asking me to redo the spell. But, I could not do it again, anyway. You see, magic never comes free. What you take, you must also pay back. Neither I nor my remaining Council have magic any longer.”

Draco blinked, stunned. Potter had sat back abruptly, as if trying to literally escape such a truth.

“You lost your magic?” he said, his voice somehow smaller than before.

She smiled. “It was such a small price to pay.”

Draco shared a glance with Potter. Neither of them agreed with that—but...surely there was another way?

“Any spell we do would require someone _giving up their magic_?” Potter asked.

The Queen shrugged. “Perhaps. You never really know what price will be exacted, but any spell large enough to save our planet would require—something quite large in return.” She shrugged again. “We know only what this particular spell requires. That is why we must all work together.”

Draco and Potter shared a look, and for the first time, Draco felt like he really knew what Potter was thinking. He swallowed heavily, looked back to the Queen.

“What do we do?”

She frowned. “I have been meeting with delegates from many nations—both magical and non-magical—to find a solution, but I’ve made little progress—and now, talks have halted completely.”

She frowned at the window, where a row of tiny specks on the sea’s horizon reminded all of them of the constant scrutiny of several Muggle militaries.

“I think a problem this large will require the combined minds of all our planet. Magical people refuse, like your compatriots did, to share the existence of magic with those who don’t have it. And surprisingly, those without magic, refuse to share the existence of magic, too—as well as refuse to share the existence of our Creators. I don’t know how any of them expect to save our world like this, but I’ve been unable to convince either side.”

“Situation normal, then,” said Potter.

Potter frowned, worrying his lip, which Draco did not intend to find as noticeable as he did. “I think we should still try to find a way to make the spell you used work again. Would you share your work with us, let us to take a look?”

Sostrate frowned, hesitated.

Potter hurried to fill the silence.

“Draco,” Potter said, pointing to him and causing him to blink at the sound of his own name from Potter’s mouth, “is an historian of Atlantis. He’s studied your casting methods and history for years—what we know of them from records anyway—and he could probably help adapt it to modern spellcasting. I have a friend who’s very good at solving magical problems who could help, too.”

Sostrate tilted her head. “The idea of giving our secrets away to two representatives of such a quarrelsome nation-state does not inspire confidence in me. Especially after all nations have failed to be helpful in any way.”

Draco barely refrained from wincing.

“Your Majesty,” he said, leaning forward as Potter had done. “I can’t speak for the rest of my countrymen, but I can tell you I will stop at nothing to protect my son from these…these beings. Creators or not, they won’t be his destruction. I will find a way to keep them away from him, and gods take my magic if necessary. I will make our world safe for him, but it would be a lot easier if you gave us a place to start.”

Potter nodded. “If that’s what we have to do to keep them off our planet, then we’ll do it, but we need to look into the spell first and see if there’s anything else we can do first, see if we even _can_ make it work.”

The Queen glanced at Severus. They seemed to communicate whole books in that glance. Finally, Severus said, “You could do worse than have Mr Potter on your side, Your Majesty. And Draco has always been...tenacious when it comes to protecting those he loves.”

Sostrate seemed to be aware of Potter’s celebrity, for she didn’t question that statement. She eyed Potter, considering, then turned the same gaze on Draco.

“You can’t do this alone,” she finally said. “And I can’t help you cast any spells. You will need all the earth’s people to make this spell work again, even those without magic.”

“How?” asked Potter. “How can they help?”

It wasn’t sarcasm in the least, but Draco also wondered. What was the key? For surely Sostrate seemed to think Muggles were it.

But she, it turned out, didn’t know either. She gave an elegant shrug, one sun-darkened shoulder lifting, the burgundy fabric tied over it sliding against her skin. “My mother was the Seer, not me. I only know what she told me—that it would take the cooperation of all the people on this earth to free us from the Creators.”

Draco frowned, nodded. They would just have to figure it out themselves. That would come in time. For now, they needed the spell—they needed a place to start.

“Will you share the spell you used with us, Ma’am?” asked Potter, gently.

She sighed, nodded, turned to Severus. “Have you translated the spell, Severus?”

“I wait only for your permission to share it, Your Majesty,” he said.

She nodded. “You have it.”

Severus turned to Draco, said. “I’ll transcribe the spell onto the blackboard painted into my lab in the dungeons. It should be ready for you by the morning.”

Potter let out a gush of relieved breath. He glanced at Draco and gave him a small, intimate smile that sent Draco’s heart fluttering in inappropriate ways. He was barely managing to keep his unwanted attraction to manageable levels—was even using the illicit physical relief it gave him to to keep from losing his shit on most days—but he was keyed up right now, adrenaline coursing through him. He couldn’t handle a smile like that from Potter right now. A smile that said they had something between them no one else had, something unique.

He managed to smile somewhat stiltedly back at Potter, then turned back to the Queen and turned the conversation towards Atlantean magic. He needed to know how close to correct his sources had been. He needed to know the intricacies of their spell-work and the way they’d thought when crafting those spells. It was the only way they would be able to know how to alter the spell, make it work worldwide.

She was forthcoming in responses, surprisingly well-versed in magical theory and spell-crafting, but Draco supposed she would be. She had helped develop the spell they would use to save themselves. The last spell she had ever cast.

They had a place to start. Draco refused to think of how it would end with the loss of his own magic.

*


	14. Chapter 14

At Hogwarts, they settled into Harry’s rooms to go over their options, of which there were few. It was night now, and the carved jack-o-lanterns in Harry’s windows caused an orange glare. He went to the window by his desk, crossed his arms over his chest while he looked down at Hogsmeade, lit up in sparkling orange and yellow and purple glows. Ginny and Luna would be down there, taking Albus trick-or-treating before dinner at the Weasleys’.

That was supposed to be Harry’s job, the one he did every year. But not this year.

“Scorpius has never been trick-or-treating before,” came a voice surprisingly close behind him.

Harry jumped, slowly turned around. Malfoy was right there, staring over his shoulder into town, against the candle’s glare, even though there were three other windows in Harry’s sitting room with the same view.

Malfoy lifted his eyebrow, turned back to the window. “Astoria’s taking him to a magical crypt tour this year to do gravestone tracings and commune with restless spirits from the Greengrass side of his family.”

Harry stared. “Sounds…traumatising.”

He wished he was taking Albus trick-or-treating this year like he usually did, but he was grateful Gin and Luna were willing to do it instead, even though he’d not told them any details about why he needed the night off this year.

Malfoy smirked. “It’s perfectly normal. And then, of course, he’ll go to Honeydukes at eight for their Chocolate Boo Bash.”

Harry laughed. “That’s much better.” He waved to one of the armchairs, gesturing for Malfoy to sit, and flicked his wand at the fireplace. “Have a seat and I’ll call down for some dinner.”

The fire flared and he asked the kitchen elves for a bit of whatever was leftover from the feast, then crossed to the old credenza that had been left in his rooms by the previous occupant, and fortuitously also left fully stocked with liquor.

“I’ve got a 1910 High-Magic Scotch or a 1983 Basilisk’s Gaze Brandy, or even a Merlyn Welsh Cream Liqueur if you’re in the mood for it,” he called over his shoulder. “And there’s still the Old Lusty Centaur, too.”

“The brandy.”

Harry nodded, Summoned two snifters from within, and poured them each a couple fingers. He passed one to Draco just as an elf popped in with two trays of food. She set it on the table between them and disappeared.

Harry took a healthy sip of his brandy and sat down, his stomach suddenly remembering how hungry he was now that food was in front of him. It was steak and ale pie, steam still coming off it in waves, the crust golden brown and buttery. They set in without fanfare, and for once, the silence wasn’t oppressive. There was tension in the air, but it was tension from the thoughts swirling around in their own heads, not from one another.

Harry’s body warmed with his dinner, and it felt to him as if the food was wholly responsible for returning blood to his face and fingers, after it had all drained away in Atlantis. He hadn’t realised how tense he was until it began to melt slowly off.

When they finished, they set their plates aside; the trays had barely touched the table before they disappeared again, back down to the kitchens. It left Harry and Malfoy with nothing between them, no buffer they could use. It was just the two of them on Halloween night, locked away in Harry’s room with a couple glasses of liquor and an impossible decision before them.

Malfoy was the first to say it.

“So—what the hell are we going to do?”

Harry had to take another strong sip of his brandy before he could put words to his oscillating thoughts.

And on reflection, he decided it would take more than this glass to get them through this night. He waved his hand and Summoned the bottle to them, topping up both their snifters before leaning back in his chair and regarding Malfoy over the rim of the crystal.

“My son’s safety is the most important thing,” he said.

Draco frowned. “My son’s, as well. I think I made that clear.”

“ _All_ the children,” Harry amended, thinking of Teddy; of Rose and Hugo; of Victoire, Nickie, and Lou; of Roxy and Fred; of Molly and Lu Two. “All our families and friends, and even the Cormac McLaggens of the world.”

Draco’s eyes flattened. “Spare me your Gryffindor pathos,” he said. “I’m not doing this for random twats. I’m doing this for my family.”

“Whatever, Malfoy,” Harry said, sighing.

It wasn’t like everyone could be decent just because it was decent. It took all sorts, he supposed. “As long as we come up with something. Anything. We can’t just sit here—not now, not knowing what we know.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, but just then, there was a knock at the portrait door before it was tugged open. Hermione peeked in, her eyebrows soaring as she saw the two of them around the fire.

“I brought the boys back,” she said, pulling the door all the way open.

Albus shot around her into Harry’s rooms, followed almost immediately by Scorpius Malfoy, and the bit of shuffling displaced air following behind them signalled Ms Danger’s presence, too. They had bags full to bursting with Chocolate Frogs, Blood Lollies, and who knew what else.

And judging by their speed, they’d already eaten a great deal of it. If this year was anything like the previous ones, Harry wouldn’t get either of them to bed without a Stunning Spell.

Hermione eyed them both with amused exasperation before turning back to Harry and Malfoy. “Ginny, Luna, Ron, and I found Astoria and Scorpius at the Honeydukes bash and offered to bring him back with us since he’s sleeping with Al and Ms Danger for the foreseeable future, anyway. Also, Dudley says to tell you it’s your turn to prep the quarterly exams.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, only a bit stiffly. “Did Astoria come back to the castle with you?”

“No, she was really into a conversation with Luna about tombstone rubbings and spirits being trapped in art.”

She left that hanging, a confused shrug of her shoulders. Malfoy nodded, thanked her.

“Talk to you tomorrow?” Harry called to her, just as she was ducking out.

Hermione turned back to him, gave him one of the Looks he remembered from their school years, and said only: “Yes, you will.”

There was a great deal of meaning behind that declaration, and Harry knew he wouldn’t get out of telling her where he’d disappeared to during the feast and what it meant. He never could get anything by her—so he decided to just go for it, fuck what Malfoy thought. They needed her help.

“Hey, Hermione,” he called as she was ducking out. Malfoy gave him a dirty look.

Hermione paused, turned back around. “Yeah?”

“Malfoy and I were just chatting about the ICW stuff. Remember how the Queen of Atlantis said her spell made them not exist?”

“Yes...” she said slowly.

“I was just thinking that that had to be the result of them using, like, really ancient magic. We’d be able to do something different now, right? If, say, we got Atlantis to do the spell again, they could hide without not existing?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. It sent them to another dimension when they cast the spell, didn’t it? We send stuff to other dimensions all the time when we Vanish objects, but I’m fairly sure they go on existing. But then again, Vanishment spells weren’t invented until the 1700s and before that, we Banished things and they were lost forever due to limitations of the magic. I bet that’s the type of magic Atlantis used. Banishments, not Vanishments.

“It’s probably just a matter of directing the spell to Vanish to an open dimension, and those bubble up all the time. The Universe is constantly creating parallel dimensions. They’d just have to define the dimension they wanted first and it would send them there, to an identical plane of existence, but without any other life.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Yeah, that sounds neat. You should look into that when your sabbatical’s over.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m extending it as long as I can. Anyway, I’m going to get back to Ron and the others. Molly’s got our kids and Mr and Mrs Honeyduke are about to break out the chocolate cordial. Night, Harry. Night, Malfoy.”

The door shut. It was just the two of them again, Albus having long since slammed his bedroom door to giggle with Scorpius in peace.

Harry smirked at him. “Vanishment spell. That’s the key to keeping us all existing.”

“Yes, yes, very good Potter,” said Malfoy, but he didn’t look pleased.

“What?”

Malfoy scowled. “I’ve just been thinking...You know, we’ll have to break the Statute.”

The fire crackled and sparked like an ominous punch to go with Malfoy’s proclamation. Harry startled and was annoyed with himself for being so jumpy. It was only Halloween. He’d had plenty worse.

Well, even Harry wasn’t sure if his parents dying was worse than nearly being abducted. They were equally horrifying in different ways. Still, he’d never expected it to be a _good_ day for him any year.

“Sorry, what?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Potter,” said Malfoy. “You heard me.”

“I did,” Harry agreed. “I just wasn’t sure I wasn’t going mad. You actually _want_ to expose the magical world?”

“Of course I don’t, idiot,” he snapped. “It scares the daylights out of me. But we can’t fight those things alone. I think it’s Muggle technology that we’re going to need—the thing the Queen’s mother saw in her vision; she wouldn’t have recognised what it was because it didn’t exist yet. We’re going to need Muggles to share their technology with us, and we can’t get them to help us if they don’t know we exist.”

“All of them?” Harry asked, sceptical. “I mean, I can use a lot of Muggle tech myself, and Hermione even more.”

Malfoy shook his head. “It’s got to be something bigger than that. The Queen said we’d need all the people of the world, so it has to be more than that. I think, if they knew we were looking for help, they’d know which tech to suggest. They’d know what we need.”

“You think they would actually help us?” Harry asked, head tilted. “It’s not like we’ve been ‘good neighbours.’ We did just try to _Obliviate_ them. And Hermione says they’re doing the second attempt this week.”

Malfoy waved that off. “They don’t know it. And I’m not going to tell them. Are you?”

Harry hesitated because his first instinct was it would be the right thing to do, and his next instinct was ‘Fuck, no.’ Then there was the third instinct, the one that really was integrated into his bones and blood like instinct was meant to be: _Which was the safer choice for Albus?_

It turned out it was the ‘Fuck, no’ one. He said as much to Malfoy, who, of course, smirked.

“All right…but let’s figure out the spell first. See what we’re working with.”

Malfoy nodded, looking relieved. They finished their drinks, the crackling fire the only sound to break the quiet.

The peace was broken some minutes later by a shriek of laughter from Albus’s bedroom. It was nearly eleven and Harry had already let him stay up way too late. Time for the annual Stunning Spell. He just wasn’t quite sure how to broach it.

He cleared his throat. “I’m ah, going to Stun Al so he’ll sleep. You know how magical kids are with sugar…” He trailed off, uncertain.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Please, I would’ve Stunned Scorpius two hours ago. You do use the child-approved version, right?”

Harry gave Malfoy a withering look. “Yes, obviously. Shall we say goodnight?”

The boys were squatting on Albus’s play rug—the one with an aerial view of a Quidditch pitch on it—pushing Harpies figurines on brooms around while repeating “whoosh!” sounds. There was a pile of empty sweet wrappers off to the side, including two whole empty boxes of Bertie Botts. Harry cringed at his own parenting.

“Hey Albus,” Harry said. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

Al looked up at him, green eyes sparkling. “The best! We went to Gran’s, and then trick-or-treating, and then to Honeydukes! And Mum Two brought me a Quibbler Fun-Pack with lots of puzzles! And then we saw Scorpius and his mum and Scorpius is gonna sleepover forever!”

“Not quite forever,” Malfoy interjected. “But for awhile, yes. Scorpius, it’s time for bed.”

Immediately, Scorpius affected a severe pout. Albus followed suit. Harry was too tired to do the usual ten-minute argue. He just ran his hand over both boys’ heads, brushing their hair back from their little faces, and watched them droop softly onto the rug, fast asleep.

“Hope you don’t mind I did Scorpius, too,” Harry said, a bit sheepish. “I didn’t want either of them to see the other falling asleep and figure out the scheme.”

But Malfoy was looking at him oddly. Not angry—it was something else. “You didn’t use your wand. Again. Is wandless magic really that easy for you? It took me years to get one or two small spells.”

Harry did pull his wand then to switch them into their pyjamas before moving them into the bed. There was an invisible blockade midway down and Harry had to tap on Ms Danger’s bottom to get her to move further down the bed.

“I’ve learned a few,” he said. “This one always seemed like a good one to know. You know, so they don’t see the wand coming and take off.”

He flipped the blankets back and put Al inside, Malfoy following with Scorpius. They tucked them in tight together and Harry scratched Ms Danger’s invisible ears. Then he vanished the sweets wrappers and took the remainder of their hauls to hide on the top shelf in the sitting room.

They shut the door after them, and Harry busied himself with a few small tasks—he hid the chocolate, damped the fire, and drained the last of his brandy.

Malfoy was still looking at him oddly, and Harry took a breath as the weight of all his feelings he’d been avoiding thinking came crashing into him. He liked being around Malfoy. He liked working with Malfoy. He liked drinking brandy with Malfoy and saving the world with Malfoy, and he didn't want him to _leave_. Suddenly, Harry couldn't control his own mouth

“Stay with me tonight,” Harry blurted. Malfoy’s shocked silence elongated and Harry swallowed. “You’ll be nearer to Scorpius.”

There was a further silence, and then, so quiet Harry almost didn’t hear it, Malfoy said, “Okay. Yes.”

Harry made a small sound in the back of his throat, a sound he wouldn’t have been able to prevent if he tried. He took three steps forward and pressed his mouth to Malfoy’s. Malfoy arched into him, his mouth falling open, and the heat of his body soaking into Harry’s own.

Harry kissed him hard, his mouth searching, and Malfoy returned it. Harry’s heart was thumping triple-time.

He pulled away, breathing heavily. “Is this okay? Sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine, Potter,” Malfoy growled, leaning back in. “Shut up,” he said against Harry’s lips.

Harry grinned. He wasn’t sure if this was from being buzzed or just being so close to Malfoy, but his body was sparkling with desire.

He walked them backwards into his bedroom, shut the door behind them. Malfoy flipped them around, pushed Harry against the wood. His mouth crashed into Harry’s again, and they both moaned, and that thought—that Malfoy was into this as much as Harry was—sent shivers of pleasure up and down Harry’s spine.

He’d never realised kissing someone could be so good, that it could make his whole body light up like the purple and orange fairy lights down in Hogsmeade. His hips pushed against Draco’s of their own volition and—Merlin, yes—they were both hard.

This was exactly what he needed…what he hadn’t even realised he needed until this very moment.

Malfoy felt like he fit against Harry’s body, like he was made to press into him. Suddenly, Harry was reminded of those sleepy afternoons in Binns’ class, the idle fantasies he’d entertained about everyone from Ron to Su Li. He’d been lying to himself when he thought they were evenly distributed—he’d always favoured fantasies of Malfoy.

Was this a fantasy, too? It felt like it. It felt too sparkling, too overwhelming to be real. Kissing someone had never made Harry’s whole body went warm like kissing Malfoy did.

They fell back onto Harry’s bed, arms and legs tangled. Malfoy’s wrist brushed against Harry’s cheek as he tangled long fingers in Harry’s hair. This close, Harry could feel Malfoy’s warm breath mingling with his own, their mouths coming together again and again. He thought he’d die if he had to stop kissing Malfoy.

But then Malfoy moved his hips and Harry’s head fell back. He panted, the delicious feeling of Malfoy’s erection against his own sending his blood pounding.

His fingers moved of their own volition, working the buttons free of Malfoy’s shirt, spreading it wide. Malfoy dropped his mouth to the side, pressing heated kisses behind Harry’s ears as his fumbled one-handed with the fly of Harry’s jeans.

Harry gasped, turned into it, even as his own hands worked Malfoy’s trousers open and shoved them over his hips. Malfoy lifted himself, his eyes blown wide, his cheeks flushed, and shoved the shirt from his shoulders and the trousers down his legs. He stepped out of them and fell back on Harry.

Harry moaned, the heat between their bodies growing with each breath, each kiss. Malfoy’s underwear was tight and silky-stretchy, his cock already full and heavy inside them.

Harry shimmied out of his jeans, flipped them over so Malfoy was spread over Harry’s bed like an offering. Harry kneeled above him, his eyes tracking over Malfoy’s body.

Malfoy rolled his hips, smirking up at him.

“Coming?”

Harry growled. “Soon.”

He lowered his face, pressing his nose to Malfoy’s silky underwear and inhaling. Malfoy arched into him, and Harry welcomed it. He mouthed at Malfoy’s erection, tongued the patch of wetness seeping through from Malfoy’s leaking cock.

Harry slipped his fingers beneath the waistband and began to slowly tug them down. Malfoy’s cock sprang free and Harry barely had the restraint to get them all the way off before he lowered his mouth to it. The first taste was everything he’d imagined in History class all those years ago, and so much more exciting and exhilarating than any sex had been in years. And they’d barely started.

But Malfoy made the grandest sounds, his hips rolling with Harry’s slow licks and sucks on his shaft. His fingers were tangled in Harry’s hair, the nails scraping lightly against his scalp. Everything was erotic. Everything felt ten thousand times more stimulating and sensual than normal.

And Malfoy tasted exquisite. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d given head, but he knew it hadn’t been this good when he had. And Malfoy’s mouth—the sounds he made were filthy and primal and Harry couldn’t get enough.

He shimmied out of his own pants and tossed them somewhere behind him, crawled his way up Malfoy’s body. Their cocks aligned, rubbed against one another, slick and heated. Pleasure shot through him, but he wanted to kiss Malfoy again. There was something illicit about it, something almost taboo that made it all the more thrilling. Because it was Malfoy.

Malfoy kissed him desperately, his hands coming up to Harry’s face and grabbing hold on either side. Harry groaned into his mouth. He moved his hips, grinding against Malfoy’s, and Malfoy moaned. Their ankles tangled together, hooking as if to never let go.

It was so good, so thrilling, but not enough.

A whispered charm had his hand coated in slick fluid. Harry reached down, too riled to wait any longer. He took hold of their cocks. Malfoy arched up, his breath puffing out in ragged breaths.

“Potter,” he breathed. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

He leant over Malfoy, his arm straining against his weight as he worked their cocks with one hand. Malfoy moved his hips in rhythm, his head thrown back. Harry bent his head and licked a stripe up Malfoy’s neck and the sound that came from Malfoy’s mouth was absolutely carnal. It pushed Harry right to the edge. He worked his hand up and down their shafts faster, squeezing just a bit at the top, twisting just a bit on the way down.

Malfoy keened and keened and Harry felt his own orgasm building so quickly he was going to burst. He seized Malfoy’s mouth again, their tongues sliding together, and the pleasure was so intense, so real, that Harry’s body began to curl and his heartbeat thrashed in his chest.

“Fuck, yes,” Malfoy hissed against his mouth.

“I’m close,” Harry replied, his eyes squeezed tight.

“Come on me,” Malfoy whispered. “Potter, I want to feel you come all over me.”

_Oh god,_ Harry thought. _Oh god, oh god, oh god._ He was right there. And then Malfoy moaned, his bollocks tightening against Harry’s knuckles, his shaft throbbing and that was all it took. Harry fell over the edge, his orgasm surging through him, over and over.

Slowly, Harry released their spent cocks and braced himself on either side of Malfoy’s face. Malfoy’s eyes were closed and a little smirky smile was playing at his lips. It gave Harry a thrill that he put that there, on _Malfoy’s_ face. Harry’s breathing slowly returned to normal, and he lowered himself to the bed next to Malfoy.

Malfoy turned to look at him, and Harry couldn’t help the tired, sated grin he gave him.

Malfoy snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry shrugged. “I think I’ve wanted that since Binns’ class.”

Malfoy laughed that time. He shook his head, disbelieving, probably, of Harry’s ridiculousness, but didn’t offer how long he himself had wanted it. Harry hoped it was for more than the five minutes preceding that interlude.

But Harry didn’t need to know that, not tonight. Tonight, he was happy and more relaxed than he’d been since St James Park, and he didn’t have to sleep alone in this room that he didn’t want to admit kind of freaked him out. But tonight, Malfoy was here…and Malfoy got it. Malfoy understood.

And Harry wanted him despite it all. Despite all the uncomfortable baggage that came with Malfoy, Harry _wanted_ him.

*

Draco woke up sprawled in Potter’s bed with one leg thrown over Potter’s naked groin, Potter’s morning wood pressing into the tender areas of Draco’s inner thigh. Despite the unfamiliar setting, Draco knew exactly where he was the moment he became aware. The whole bed smelled of Potter, and Potter’s hands were in his hair.

Draco cracked open one eye. Potter was awake, his eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling while his fingers toyed with the strands of Draco’s hair. He glanced over, the angle awkward, when Draco moved.

“You’re awake,” he said, his smile broken by a yawn.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Are the boys—?”

“Still asleep,” Potter said. He considered. “Or maybe still Stunned. Hard to tell when the Stunning Spell wears off and they’re left just sleeping.”

“You’re an abysmal parent,” Draco decided.

Potter grinned at him. “You allowed it. Plus, did you see how many sweets they got through last night? They’d _still_ be awake if I hadn’t.”

Draco pulled himself up into a sitting position, belatedly realising he, too, had an erection. He flushed, pulled the sheets back over his lap, but Potter had already seen. He was smirking.

“ _Now_ you’re going to be shy?”

“I am not shy!” Draco said. He allowed the sheet to loosen, though he made sure it still maintained his decency.

Potter rolled onto his side, facing Draco. He brought his hand up, his fingers toying with the edge of the sheet, teasing it lower. His eyes sparkled.

“I’ve already seen it, you know.”

“Of course I know that, Potter.”

“And I’ve felt it, too,” Potter continued, his voice low.

Draco’s cock twitched eagerly, and Potter felt it. His smirk spread into a grin and he dragged the sheet away altogether, leaving Draco’s skin exposed, tingling with the chilly November morning air.

Draco held his breath, stared down at the place where his cock jutted up from his body, Potter’s deeply tanned fingers agonisingly close. Slowly, Potter moved, his fingers encircling Draco’s cock, sending a wave of unexpected pleasure through his body. It was all the encouragement Draco needed.

He growled, flipped them over, his hands bracing on either side of Potter’s face. Potter looked up at him with dark eyes, his mouth parted and already panting.

“Do you know, Potter, how long I’ve wanted you, you stupid, annoying fuck?”

Potter laughed breathlessly. “I hope awhile.”

“Awhile, yes,” said Draco, bringing one hand up to drag the tip of his finger over Potter’s left nipple. “Too fucking long, is more accurate.”

“Since Binns’ class for me,” Potter admitted, then laughed again. “I’d forgotten about it, but then—you being back here, at Hogwarts. It all came back, much as I wanted to ignore it.”

“Which Binns’ class?” Draco asked, head cocked. “We had him since first year.”

“Oh, god, not that long,” Potter said, caught between a moan and a grin as Draco began to undulate his hips over Potter’s own. “Fourth or fifth year, for sure.”

Draco smirked. “Good.”

He bent down, pressed his mouth to Potter’s and kissed him deeply, despite neither of them having had time to brush their teeth yet. Potter arched into it, needy sounds trapped between their mouths. Draco could get used to this. But alas, they had classes to teach.

*


	15. Chapter 15

It didn’t occur until mid-morning that Scorpius could’ve woken up at any time the night before, come looking for him, and found Draco’s cock rubbing against Albus’s dad’s. Fortunately, Draco’s luck held out.

That, or Potter’s ‘child-safe’ Stunning Spells were much more potent than any Draco’s parents had ever used on him.

Nevertheless, the boys were still sleeping after he and Potter had pulled themselves out of bed, showered, and dressed. And both boys woke up with just light touches to their shoulders and didn’t require an _Ennervate_ , which was a relief.

“Come on and get dressed for breakfast, okay?” Potter said. “Then you’ve got to finish your homework for school on Monday. I know you have an assignment due in your Maths.”

Albus nodded sleepily, scooted out of bed.

“You, too, Scorpius.”

Scorpius moaned and tried to ignore him, so Draco just levitated him from the bed and set him standing on the floor. Scorpius sighed in resignation.

The invisible dog moved to take his empty space. Draco raised an eyebrow—perhaps he should have Mum try her hand at hybridising Demiguises and dogs. She’d probably do Dalmatians instead of Springer Spaniels; Narcissa was very fond of spots.

After breakfast, they all went down to Severus’s old office, where he had indeed transcribed the Atlantis spell from the original Greek to English on the painted blackboard in the portrait.

Severus himself wasn’t there, which both relieved and frustrated Draco. Frustrated because he was _sure_ Severus knew more than he was letting on, and wanted to wring it out of him; relieved because Draco was certain both his and Potter’s faces screamed ‘We wanked each other off last night!’ and he didn’t want to have to listen to it from Severus.

The boys occupied themselves with Severus’s priceless, one-of-a-kind, forgotten alembic collection. Draco let them at it—he’d learned that with children, there were some fights not worth fighting. And anyway, Severus was dead. It wasn’t like Draco was going to let Theo or Fleur Weasley in here to get at them. Despite their respective Potions Masteries, neither of them had been able to determine anything about the alien blood they’d collected from Potter and his dog except ‘Kind of human, but mostly not.’ They were obviously not ready for priceless, one-of-a-kind alembics.

Once he and Potter had copied down the spell, checked it four times for transcription and typographical errors, and made three copies, they herded Albus and Scorpius from the room and headed back to Potter’s to get to work.

Potter had lunch brought up to them and they worked all through the morning and into the afternoon. He called the ICW around lunch and tried to relay the urgency of their discovery of the UFOs’ mission and how all magical people were all in danger, but Herbert Kurzschluss’s assistant only said he’d pass the message on. Their Floo call was never returned.

The noises from Albus’s room remained steady for the most part, allowing Draco and Potter to focus on the spell.

“It would help to know what we’re trying to _do_ with the spell,” Draco said.

“Who knows...Wish we could blow them up instead,” Potter suggested. “It’d be much easier.”

Draco rolled his head towards Potter’s. Draco dearly hoped Potter could see every detail of the absolute disdain for that suggestion in Draco’s expression.

“The spell doesn’t do that. Besides, how would we even find them? The one we saw appeared and disappeared without any warning—and if they can hide that easily or move that quickly, there could be dozens more. Hundreds. They could have a whole other planet just teeming with replacements.”

Potter crinkled his nose. “Merlin, I hope not. But I don’t see how we can adjust this spell. It’s ancient and finicky and I, for one, don’t want to cease to exist. I keep looking at it, but I don’t see a way to get around it. Not that I’m an expert or anything. We really should get Hermione in on this.”

“Not yet,” said Draco.

He didn’t want to say why he was so reluctant to bring their friends and family in. Merlin knew he could use Granger’s help on this—anyone but Potter’s, really—but Draco had an uncanny feeling this was going to get much bigger than the two of them very quickly, and he didn’t want to drag their families down with them.

Potter eyed him, but let the subject drop.

“So,” Draco said, on a sigh, “We need to figure out how to do two things: one—remove the piece of the spell that takes the object in question out of time and space for a period of time, and two—make it work for the whole planet.”

“The _whole planet_?” Potter said. “I thought we were going to...actually I have no idea what I thought we were going to do. Just— _the whole planet_.”

“Well, yes.” Draco was unruffled. “It worked for Atlantis, but now we need to hide all the magical communities, not just them.”

“Yeah, but Atlantis is an island with roughly the same surface area as Greenland,” Harry said. “Hardly representative of the _entire planet_. There’s no way we can put out enough magic to complete a spell like that.”

Draco agreed this point was particularly salient.

But he had faith in the spell—and, perhaps naively, in the magic of Atlantis. It was a beautiful piece of magic; in its simplest form, it was a ward. But it wasn’t a ward at all, not like they used wards today.

It was, Draco thought, a singular representation of Atlantis itself: a beautiful piece of forgotten magic, trapped in time and space. The mechanics of the spell were formed around a metaphorical shield, but the shield itself was just that—a metaphor. It wasn’t a true ward in that it created a barrier between Atlantis and what was outside Atlantis. The barrier was time itself, woven in a net.

And Draco thought it was ingenious. Any ward, no matter how powerful, could be cracked. Even Hogwarts’ wards had cracked under sustained onslaught. Wards, by their very nature, were susceptible to someone simply…stepping around the ‘shield’ to the unprotected side. Usually, that was the bottom or top. Some wards were spherical, but much harder to cast.

By taking Atlantis itself out of time—out of existence, really—and storing it safely in another dimension in space, a dimension without time—they were able to fully hide from the aliens. No technology, no matter how advanced, would be able to counter it.

It was beautiful.

But Draco didn’t particularly want to cease to exist for an indeterminate amount of time. Nor did he want that for Scorpius. Or even, dare he even think it, Potter.

So the spell wasn’t useable in its current form. Queen Sostrate had been right about that. But it was a place to start. A plan to work from. They needed something different.

They needed a huge, global spell to return not just Atlantis, but the whole Earth, to a hidden place out of time and space. A place the aliens couldn’t find them again until they were magically and technologically advanced enough to protect themselves more directly. That could take centuries—centuries they would need to live through, not trapped in frozen time. And with a surface area of 196.9 million square miles, the Earth was not a small project.

Atlantis, comparatively, had an area of roughly 800,000 square miles.

The biggest problem was how limited their options were. Despite the Atlantean population’s familiarity with the Creators, they knew very little about how many aliens of their race were still living, how many ships and weapons they had, or even their technology—the language hadn’t been there to discuss it twelve thousand years ago. Nowadays, Muggle physicists and engineers might be able to parse it, but the Creators weren’t nearly as social as they used to be. Humans couldn’t just strike up a conversation and figure out what kind of technology they were up against.

So they couldn’t really fight back.

They could only go to ground, wait it out in a safe place while they developed as a species.

And that, inevitably kept leading them back to the same conclusion Draco had had yesterday: They couldn’t do this without Muggles and their technology. But he had no idea how to do it _with_ Muggles or their technology. All he knew was they needed more help than they had.

He hated that conclusion.

*

“Mum Three.”

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes only by the grace of Merlin. “Yes, Albus.”

“Can me and Scorpius go down to the Quidditch pitch and watch the Hufflepuff practice? We’ll take Ms Danger.”

Harry glanced at Malfoy, lifting his eyebrows in question.

On the one hand, Harry was on high alert at all times lately, but on the other, it was really fucking difficult concentrating with two seven-year-old boys squealing in the next room.

“It’s fine with me,” Malfoy said. “Come back in with the Hufflepuffs when they finish their practice, and I’d better see you both at dinner.”

“Yeah!” Albus high-fived Scorpius and they ran from the room.

Ms Danger, currently visible, trailed along after them with this month’s issue of _Ars Alchemica_ in her mouth and a hard look in Harry’s direction. Much like her original namesake (Harry’d named her Ms Granger when he found her in Knockturn Alley on top of a ruined copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ , but Albus had been unable to say that letter combination for years), Ms Danger did not care for Quidditch.

Once they’d left, Malfoy turned to Harry, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Which one’s Mum Two?”

Harry huffed. “Luna.”

“He’s half your blood and yet you’re the bottom of the pile.”

“Seems that way,” Harry said, still scowling. “I think Gin secretly encourages it at home. She always looks delighted when he says it.”

“Being Mum One must’ve gone to her head,” Malfoy observed.

Harry couldn’t agree more. She and Albus were thick as thieves, and sometimes, actual thieves. More than once, Harry’d come back from teaching to find his rooms had been broken into and something silly, like his favourite mug, would be missing.

Harry suspected Ginny and Luna were teaching Albus to be ‘resourceful’ and using him as the mark.

Abruptly, Malfoy sighed, pushed away the paper he was reading. “If we take the reported international standard of magical power and applied it to the Queen’s spell, we’d still only have three percent of the required magic to hide the Earth. And that’s if _every magical person alive_ helps.”

“We really have fucked ourselves, haven’t we?” Harry said, idly scanning the ICW’s 2009 census on Magical Power per Capita, broken down by age and sex. “We’ve been hiding away for centuries, kept to our own communities, having one child per generation. Muggles, meanwhile, have exploded from one billion to almost seven billion in just a hundred years. Imagine if just five percent of that five billion had been born magical.”

“We’d probably have enough power to hide the Earth,” Malfoy said, somewhat grudgingly. He looked up, eyes sharp, and added, “But we don’t. And we don’t have a hundred years to go breed with Muggles, so what do you suggest instead?”

“I keep thinking there’s got to be some kind of Muggle tech that’ll amplify magic.”

Malfoy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There’s very little magic that’s been developed to work in conjunction with Muggle technology, Potter. And certainly not a spell that was developed before most humans even had a written language.”

“But it _was_ developed to be used by a community that was only half-magical,” Harry said. “And one of the things it did was…was take the casters’ magic.” He paused, swallowed, refused to think on that right now. “It, in effect, made them Muggle. So, maybe it’s more inclined to work with Muggles than a normal spell? I mean, magic’s kind of sentient sometimes. It probably knew who was forming it into that spell and why.”

“Yes, I know that,” Malfoy snapped.

Harry chewed his lip. Against his will, he kept remembering what they’d done the night before, and it set his body alight all over again each time. He wanted to talk about it, to know what Malfoy was thinking, but neither of them brought it up. Harry didn’t think it was an awkward way, just a…‘We don’t have time to get into this’ kind of way. Which was pretty disappointing, considering how much Harry would definitely like to talk about it.

Last night, he’d known Malfoy more intimately than he’d ever known him before, and that knowledge didn’t go away just because they had more important things to worry about. It scratched at Harry’s mind, refusing to let him focus.

But they had the spell to worry about. And Malfoy, understandably, was frustrated.

“I’m just saying, maybe we could use that,” Harry said, more quietly.

The worldwide magical population just wasn’t large enough to complete a spell so large. And it certainly wasn’t capable of harnessing the power of Muggle tech without Muggle assistance. But Muggles didn’t have magic, which put them right back at the beginning.

Harry needed a stiff drink, a nap, or to wank off Malfoy again. Maybe all three. Instead, what he had was a sleepless night of research ahead of him.

“Well, we’ve got to find a way to make it work on a global scale, regardless of how big Greenland is,” Malfoy finally said.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I feel really useless, though. I don’t know anything about spell-crafting. I don’t even know how we’d do this spell. There’s no wand movements or anything—is it really all just chanting and…I don’t even know what this part is,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the transcribed spell.

“There isn’t a wand movement, Potter, because none of the original ancient cultures needed a wand to focus their magic, they only—”

Malfoy broke off, blinking. “Wait,” Malfoy said, scrambling through their assorted books for his copy of the spell. He found it, read it through three times, his smile growing with each one.

“That’s it! Potter, you’re not an idiot and I’d absolutely suck you off if we didn’t have so much to do!”

“That sounds great!” Harry said. “But what did I say?”

“Wands!” Malfoy said.

He hopped up from his seat, paced back and forth. “This is so perfect—so obvious! Why didn’t I think of it before? Don’t you have a house-elf here? Can you call him?”

Harry shook his head, looking baffled, but Malfoy couldn’t spare that any thought. “Kreacher!”

“Master calls?” Kreacher croaked.

Harry nodded to Malfoy and the elf turned his beady eyes upon Malfoy then. “Kreacher, I need some books from my rooms in the History Wing. Can you get them for me?”

Malfoy rattled off a dozen different titles, and the elf nodded, popped away.

“They didn’t use wands,” Malfoy finally explained. “They didn’t have them then. Atlantean magic is a dualistic magical system, weighted evenly between intent and directing the magic of the major leyline crossing their island sits on. They didn’t need wands because Atlantis was so perfectly positioned over natural magic that it was easy to channel their intent. They didn’t need a focus and the spell was written without one.”

He turned around, found Potter watching him intently. Malfoy swallowed, kept talking, too excited to shut up.

“But we have wands. And wands can amplify magic by up to 10,000 joules—logarithmic!”

Harry blinked. “So it’s more powerful.”

“Yes!”

Harry’s mouth opened, closed. Opened again. “So that means if we performed this spell on Atlantis, we’d be able to tap into both our own power, the power under Atlantis, _and_ our wands would make it a lot stronger.”

Kreacher returned with a stack of books as tall as himself, left them on the floor by the disaster of documents and books already on the coffee table.

“Yes! And what’s more—wands create channels. Natural magic flows freely, like a cloud. But wands direct magic in a single direction—like mini-leylines. If we adapted this spell to wands, we could direct the magic to conduits that would amplify it _further_. We just need to find some magical conduits!”

The door opened, startling them both. Scorpius and Albus trouped in, suspiciously covered in mud. Potter’s eyes were immediately narrowed.

“Did Ginger Farley take you up on her broom again?” Harry asked.

Albus went suspiciously blank-faced. “What? No way! I don’t even like flying!”

Harry wasn’t impressed. And told the boy so in no uncertain words—words like ‘When your mums find out.’ Albus went white as a sheet, begging and sniffling.

Scorpius attempted to sneak into Albus’s room, but Malfoy watched him narrow-eyed the whole time. His backside was covered in mud.

“Scorpius!”

“Eep!”

“Why is your bottom covered in mud?”

“I fell, honest!” Scorpius said.

“From where?”

Scorpius’s eyes drifted to the side. “Just standing.”

“Standing on what?”

Scorpius sighed. “Ginger Farley’s Nimbus 2012.”

Draco smirked. “Next time, don’t fall. Now turn around and let me _Scourgify_ your trousers. I don’t want to hear anything at all from your mother about me not keeping you presentable.”

“Christ,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. What Slytherin parenting.

Once both of the heathens were cleaned up and sent down to dinner in the Great Hall, Malfoy turned back to Harry with an exhausted sigh. They’d spent the whole sodding day in Harry’s rooms, noses in books. And they had classes to teach tomorrow.

“Shall we head down, too?” asked Harry. “I could do with a nibble, to be honest.”

Malfoy nodded. “We’ve made good progress.” He took a deep breath, gave Harry a searching look. “I think we can do this, Potter.”

Harry swallowed, nodded. “I think so, too.”

They walked down to dinner together, shoulders occasionally bumping, neither one of them daring to bring up the gut-churning apprehension Harry knew they were both feeling…the horrifying probability that they wouldn’t walk out of this with their magic.

*

Dennis Creevey and Pansy Parkinson were snickering over the _Guardian_ when Harry made it down to breakfast the next day. It was nearly half-seven and much later than Harry usually woke up, but he’d slept roughly last night.

Privately, Harry wondered if it was because Malfoy had returned to his own rooms last night. Was it possible to get used to sleeping next to someone after one night?

He was probably just being an idiot.

He _had_ nearly been abducted in that room, after all.

“What are you two giggling about?” Harry asked, maybe a bit grumpily. He had almost used the Time-Turner the Ministry had issued him for school trips, but felt a bit like that would make him a failure as an adult, and had decided to be a martyr to the day instead.

“Muggles are going wild,” Pansy said, delighted. “Have you heard of the internet? It’s like having a conversation with a lot of people at a cocktail party all at once.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” And use it regularly.

Pansy tapped the newspaper. “There are Muggles on the internet having arguments about that thing you and Dudley saw. Some of them are blaming it on their government and some of them think it’s actually people from another planet.”

She turned a shrewd eye to Harry, who was still trying to aim the coffee spigot correctly over his mug. “Do you think Muggle governments are crafty enough for that? It would certainly be a simpler answer. I don’t know if I like the idea of people from other planets…”

“No idea,” Harry said. “But I don’t think what I saw was from _this_ planet.”

Pansy frowned, deflated a little bit. She tried to rally, but he could tell some of the spark had left her when she continued on:

“Well, there’s one Muggle, who goes by a pseudonym, who’s really making waves. They say not only is the ship from another planet, but there were people in that ship who are going to kill us all, and the only people who can save us are people with magic. But everyone else is telling this person magic doesn’t exist. The _Guardian’s_ run a full piece on it! Can you believe it! Isn’t it delightful? They think magic exists! But they don’t really know magic exists! It’s such a conundrum! Honestly, sometimes I feel like I could go do a sex magic ritual right in Trafalgar Square, with summoned deities and everything, and Muggles would still argue if it was real or not!”

Harry frowned. “Can I see that paper, Dennis?”

Dennis passed it over, already folded back to the correct page.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Gin and Luna enter with Albus swinging between their hands. Gin still wasn’t happy about having to stay at Hogwarts, but Harry could not have cared less, so long as they were all safe. And really, it was no further a commute for her than Hogsmeade had been.

They waved to him as they went to eat at the staff families table. He smiled back, gave Albus a stern look. Albus’s eyes flew to the Hufflepuff table where Ms Fawley was laughing with her third-year friends, and then nodded quickly. They had a deal: Albus would stay off brooms unsupervised by adults, and Harry wouldn’t tell Gin about it.

He really had no idea why Albus wouldn’t rather learn to fly with his mother, who was a retired star Chaser for the Harpies, Albus’s favourite team.

The newspaper article was just a little fluff piece, but it made Harry’s gut clench in a way he hadn’t experienced since Horcrux hunting—that ‘instinct’ feeling was going off like bells. He couldn’t place it.

Just some bland reporting on a subreddit that had popped up in recent weeks, centred around the ship sighting. Apparently, it had grown exponentially over several days, thanks mainly to a particular user (“purplehybrids”) whose posts and replies were both incredibly long, and also composed well enough, with enough reputable citations and photographs, that people were starting to wonder if they were onto something.

Purplehybrids’ most popular post seemed to be a personal account of how they had known magical people, seen magic firsthand, and that a spell had been cast on them that distorted their mind for many years. But that something had happened after Atlantis appeared, that cleared the spell from their mind. They could think now, and they were here to warn everyone of the dangers of alien invaders.

It was eerie. Were they talking about the _Obliviate_ spells? Had that done something…permanent to some poor Muggle? Made them a bit bonkers? Or had it dislodged a previous _Obliviate—_ or another spell—from that Muggle, and allowed old thoughts and memories to flow through?

Harry’s gut was still screaming ‘instinct, instinct!’

Then purplehybrids said that since their mind had been released from its spell, they could see the future sometimes, and Harry sighed, disappointed. Just another crackpot, trying to become internet famous.

“Thanks,” he said, and passed the paper back to Dennis. He and Pansy immediately started giggling over it again.

He finished his breakfast in short order, and stood to take the side exit from the Great Hall. Harry pushed the door open and nearly walked right into Malfoy.

“Oh—!” said Harry. He smiled. “Morning.”

Malfoy looked him up and down. “You look terrible. Didn’t you sleep?”

“Not a wink,” Harry said. “I suppose I sleep better with you to guard me.” He added a suggestive, overdone wink to the end to make it more playful-sounding than he actually meant it, but it worked.

Malfoy grinned. “Cowardly Gryffindor, hm? I always knew you were no braver than the rest of us. One tiny little abduction attempt and you need a nightlight for the rest of your life.”

“Not a nightlight, just a night _friend_.” He waggled his eyebrows again.

Malfoy snorted. “Get out of my way, Potter. If I don’t eat breakfast, I will absolutely rip the head off of Ms Lovecraft in my class today. She’s been badgering me for ancient protection spells against Shoggoths for weeks.”

Harry’s face fell. “She was…really scared.”

Malfoy sighed. “I know, and I can absolutely understand her point, but the fact remains that ancient cultures didn’t have a Shoggoth problem to protect against. I told her last week to write to her gran for a copy of their family grimoire, so maybe she’ll have done that and we can move on from the Old Gods.”

“Good luck,” Harry said. “I’ve got my Festival-Fringe-Incident second years first thing, and they still haven’t forgiven me for that day.”

“As if you made Atlantis appear all by yourself. They have a much higher opinion of your abilities than I do.”

“You seemed fine with my abilities the other n—”

“Hey, Harry! Hey, Draco!”

“Good morning, Dudley,” Malfoy said. He gave Harry a pointed look, swept past him into the Great Hall.

“Ready for class?” Dudley asked.

Harry sighed. “Thank Merlin it’s a lecture day,” was all he could think to say. He couldn’t deal with taking the kids out on an immersion experience today. Then, “Where’ve you been?”

They set off towards their classroom, Dudley carrying his satchel of notes and teaching props on one shoulder.

“Had breakfast with Mum,” he said. “Just trying to make sure she’s doing all right. I swear, she’s gone a bit off since they did that _Obliviate_. At least she’s remembering I don’t eat carbs now, though.”

Something should’ve triggered then. Later, Harry would blame it on the lack of sleep, while kicking himself for missing it. Something should’ve set off his little internal instinct-o-metre, but it didn’t, and they continued on to their first class, where they spent an hour and a half teaching second years how to read train and airplane schedules, hail cabs, and use street maps.

*


	16. Chapter 16

The first week of December, Draco was still a pathetic mess. It was a heady combination of late nights doing ridiculous experiments and equations, trying to add a wand variable into the Queen’s spell, combined with the most blowjobs he’d had in literal ages.

Waking up next to Potter, in Potter’s Troll-size bed with dated blue covers, the first light of November hitting his face from a different-facing window, was the first moment in a week of not-normal events. Draco successfully navigated a week of surprisingly not-awkward ‘morning afters,’ somehow managing to not make a fool of himself each time as he deliberated too long on how to evacuate the room without being caught, was always caught, and always ended up snogging Potter instead.

Potter seemed to _actually enjoy_ Draco’s presence.

And then there was breakfast, of course.

This morning it occurred in Potter’s rooms, with their keen-eyed sons giving them curious looks over their identical plates of eggs and bacon while Draco and Potter sipped coffee, read the newspaper, and pretended everything was totally normal.

But it wasn’t normal because Potter followed Draco and Scorpius to the door and—very obviously—kissed Draco on the mouth before he left.

“Are you marrying Professor Potter, Dad?” Scorpius asked him then.

Draco did not die at that moment.

Instead, he very calmly said, “No, Scorpius.”

Then he began to sweat a bit while he waited to see if Scorpius would ask any follow-ups, but Scorpius only eyed him, shrugged, and pulled out a Chocolate Frog from his play robes. Draco, too stunned by this expert hiding and less expert reveal, let him get halfway through the Frog before he managed to gather himself and tell him to wait until tea time.

The following Monday, he had class again.

His students were subdued, as they had been since the ship sighting earlier in the school year, but some seemed to be rallying. There was a general consensus that things were going back to normal.

No one had seen _another_ spaceship, so maybe they left.

Draco, unfortunately, knew that not to be true. And the knowledge ate at him like nitric acid in a pewter cauldron.

On Friday, he went through the planned lesson on Mayan death rituals with his seventh years as if by rote. For such a gruesome topic, he’d expected a bit more energy from the students.

He hoped his distraction wasn’t evident, but suspected it was. Very much so.

“Alright, books away,” he said, after finishing a lecture that had been much more interesting when he planned it out.

“We’re going to practice the spell to send a dead soul back in time to its body. We are only going to practice this spell on these dead mice. We are not going to, under any circumstances, use these spells on one another, Muggles, pets, or anything besides these mice. Am I clear?”

There was a series of vigorous nods.

“And we all remember the waivers and contracts we and our parents signed at the beginning of the year that say not only you, but your parents also, will spend a great deal of time in Azkaban for the misuse of these spells?”

More vigorous nodding. Draco frowned at them for good measure, then, when he was satisfied they were absolutely taking this seriously, he spelled the instructions onto the board.

“Everyone collect a mouse and get started.”

It was an endurance test not to sigh with relief in front of them. He was so relieved to be done with the lesson, to have a few minutes to collect himself while they practiced, before the next class came in.

He and Potter had been busy this week.

For one, Draco was certain he’d finally landed on the correct method to incorporate wands into the Atlantis spell. If his maths were correct (and they always were) then they could, theoretically, put out enough power between the two of them—assuming they were standing in Atlantis at the time—to reach the mainlands in either direction, rushing over the oceans in search of conduits to bounce it back into the air again, stronger than before.

It would work better if they had a triad or a quad to cast the spell, as the Queen and her Council had originally composed, but Draco would work with what he had. And what he had was himself and Potter.

The magic would spread further and further, zooming through conduits around the world until it, in effect, created a magical net over the entire earth that zapped it from their current plane of existence into another, empty, parallel one.

That (theoretically) solved one of their problems, and Draco was feeling very pleased with himself for it. He still had no idea how to keep them from ceasing to exist, though.

Potter didn’t know it yet, but Draco had also been hedging bets for another potential problem.

Draco couldn’t see a path out of this that didn’t end in either the ICW arresting both him and Potter for exposing the wizarding world, and packing them away in Nurmengard for the rest of their natural lives—or their deaths.

So, he’d already been to the Manor twice, warning and making contingency plans with his parents, taking a few of those illegal Portkeys off Lucius’s hands. When he’d stopped by Astoria’s rooms to talk about making a few adjustments to their custody arrangement—read: signing over legal custody of Scorpius to her just in case the Ministry came after him—she’d known he was up to something stupid. But she’d had the graciousness not to say it. He made sure she knew this was a _temporary_ arrangement—the thought of losing Scorpius was more than Draco could bear, but he had to make sure he was safe from being made a ward of the state, should anything go awry.

And now, Draco watched his seventh year mixed-House class work through the intricacies of the Mayan Soul-Rewind Spell while he ran through the adapted Atlantis spell in his head yet again.

Only three of his students managed to send their mouse’s soul back in time to reattach to its earthly body and live again, but Draco was pleased anyway.

It was tough magic. When he’d been learning it—alone, in the Manor, during house arrest—it’d been a desperate attempt to save his mother’s favourite Dalmatian’s first litter, and the mother herself. He’d saved the mother and three of the silver- and gold-spotted puppies, but the last one had been a lost cause.

But Draco had grown exponentially since those early years of studying ancient magic. He knew Atlantean spell-casting as well as he knew modern casting now. They could do this.

They just needed one more variable…

A very difficult variable to acquire or account for.

A lot of magical conduits.

*

Somehow, Harry had managed to drag Malfoy away from Hogwarts and their endless research long enough to walk down to Dudley’s for the Chelsea/Manchester United match Friday evening.

Chelsea was Harry’s and Gin’s favourite team because they both enjoyed watching arseholes, and with them playing Dudley’s team, it was bound to be a rousing good night.

The night was cool but not yet frigid, an unusual warm snap mid-November that Harry wouldn’t argue with. He would take whatever small pleasures were offered him these days. Anything to keep his mind off the problem they still had with the spell: They could use the wands to amplify their magic, but they’d still lose their own in the process. They hadn’t yet found a way around that. And he had no idea how Malfoy planned to use Muggles to amplify their magic.

Harry didn’t like the solution his brain came up with.

They brought the boys down with them, though Harry despaired of ever convincing Albus of the brilliance of sports in general and Chelsea in particular.

“Harry!” Dudley said, opening the door. “Albus, yo, little bud. What’s happening?”

“Hey, Uncle D,” Albus chirped, sliding inside.

“Hi, Albus’s Uncle D,” Scorpius echoed.

Dudley laughed, opened the door wider. “Come in, come in. Millicent’s pulling some ribs off the grill—sugar-free BBQ, hope you don’t mind—and I’ve got wings coming out of the oven in just a sec. I’ve got a green salad and some broccoli with dip. Made some nachos for the kids. Beer? Vodka’s zero-carb if you’d rather a cocktail.”

Gin and Luna were already there when they arrived, and Millicent, too, who, Harry noticed, was also wearing Chelsea blue.

Dudley went to get them drinks while they Transfigured some cushions into an extra sofa. Harry was unsurprised to find Malfoy preferred vodka to beer, but did raise his eyebrows a bit upon learning he also knew his way around a hot wing.

Harry settled casually into Malfoy’s side as the game started, pointedly ignoring Gin’s grin and Dudley’s suspiciously unsurprised smirk.

Millicent was good with a Muggle grill—she probably used magic, actually—and the ribs were fantastic, despite being apparently totally okay for Dudley’s Keto lifestyle.

“I admit,” Malfoy said at one point during the first half, “I have no idea how this game is played, but those fellows in blue come off rather arsehole-ish.”

“That’s Chelsea for you,” Dudley groused, then nearly flew out of his seat when Man U made an attempt on goal and missed by a foot. Chelsea responded with some unsportsmanlike behaviour, no surprise.

“I rather like them,” Malfoy said after a moment.

Harry grinned.

It was during half-time, when Gin and Luna had retreated to the kitchen to help Dudley and Millicent clean up, that Malfoy became fidgety.

“All those people in that stadium,” he said. “There are a lot of Muggles, aren’t there? There must be as many people there for this one mid-season game as there was at the entire World Cup last year.”

The telly was muted, but they occasionally panned the camera over the crowd while they waited for the players to return to the pitch.

“Yeah, we’re really outnumbered,” Harry said. But Malfoy knew that. They’d already talked about it.

Malfoy frowned. Harry could see his mind working and knew neither of them were going to like it when he spoke again. Finally, Malfoy looked up, his sharp eyes meeting Harry’s directly.

“We’re _really_ going to have to break the Statute.” It must’ve just been sinking in for Malfoy.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered.

Malfoy shook his head. “I mean, we aren’t just looking for a few Muggles to help us out, Muggles who already know about us, like Granger’s parents or Dudley. We’re going to have to tell _all_ of them about magic. The _whole fucking world_. All those people there in that stadium, watching this football game—they’ve got to know.”

Harry exhaled in a rush. The reality was so much more stunning than the abstract thought.

The same absurd, stunning realisation Harry kept ending up at when he lay in bed next to Malfoy, sweat cooling from his body, trying to fall asleep. The same realisation Harry had desperately wished wasn’t right. But it was. It was the only option they had.

He glanced at the telly. All those screaming people. All those Man U fans singing bawdy songs. All those Chelsea twats. They’d have to tell all of them. It was terrifying when you looked at it like that.

It wasn’t abstract anymore. Not just ‘Muggles,’ but Chelsea fans and Man U fans, Arsenal fans, Tottenham fans, peers, the Royal Family, the host of BBC News, Stephen Moffat, the actors from Dr Who, and on and on and on. All of them.

“I know,” Harry said, finally.

Malfoy put his head in his hands, rubbed his temples. Between his arms, Harry could see Malfoy’s mouth twisted angrily.

Eyes still closed, head still in his hands, Malfoy continued: “I know what we need to do. There’s a spell, an old one. It used Muggles,” Malfoy explained.

“Like—their _parts_?” Harry asked, aghast.

Malfoy gave him an unimpressed look. “As magical conduits, arsehole.”

Harry sat up. “That’s perfect.”

“I know,” Malfoy said. “I’ve been thinking about it for a few days. But the spell’s got another requirement to it—we need Muggles to trust us, or they won’t be able to be conduits. The magic will skip right over them.”

Harry frowned. “How do we do that?”

Malfoy looked back at the telly, grimacing. “We need to go on there, so they can all see us. And then we need to convince them.”

Harry squeezed Malfoy’s hand, barely realising he was even doing it.

“And show them magic,” Harry said, swallowing.

Malfoy nodded.

This was much bigger than Harry had envisioned, but he couldn’t think of a better way.

Yet, there was no way either of them would come out of this unscathed. The probable loss of their magic was a steep price already, but with this…this brazen breach of the Statute, the ICW would rip them apart.

They’d rip their families apart.

“We have to protect them,” Harry said. “We’ll be criminals at worst, pariahs at best.”

Malfoy understood what he meant right away. “I’ve got Portkeys,” he said. “Illegal ones, but they’re untraceable. We’ll give them out to our friends and family before we do anything. Make sure they have a way to escape if things go…awry.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t even care where Malfoy had got illegal Portkeys. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted everyone he loved to be able to live free and safe on the other side of this thing.

“Good,” he said. Then, “Good. We’ll start planning it.”

Malfoy slipped his arm around Harry then, pulled him in. Harry was surprised to find no one raised an eyebrow at it. And touching Malfoy like that...being able to be free with him and close to his body...just made all Harry’s worries go away. The second half started, and Dudley rushed back in the room, followed by the others. Chelsea scored in the first play and Ginny and Millicent screamed, high-fived.

Malfoy looked fucking fantastic all night, cheering for Chelsea like the git he was, and Harry couldn’t feel anything but a fiery desire for him all night. Harry made an effort to be excited, too, but the rest of the match passed in a blur, and at the end, when Chelsea had won, Harry couldn’t remember a single goal.

Afterwards, Harry dragged Malfoy back to Hogwarts. Even two feet of snow didn’t cool Harry’s unyielding desire for Malfoy. He practically sprinted up to the castle, pulling Malfoy along behind him, stopping every few feet to kiss him desperately, delighting in the way Malfoy laughed at his antics.

They made back to the castle, panting and laughing, and Harry had never felt more alive than he did in that moment. Despite the shit they had coming, despite the entire world being a living horror film, Harry had, for the first time, something that made it all worth it. He was still baffled and amazed that something was Malfoy.

They tripped up the front steps and into the Entrance Hall. Harry tugged Malfoy to his rooms, as Malfoy’s were much too far. They fell back against Harry’s door, still kissing.

Harry liked this all very much, but it wasn’t nearly enough. He needed to feel Malfoy, all of him. Needed to be wrapped snug around him while Malfoy worked him open again and again. He pulled away from the kiss, touched his mouth to Potter’s ear.

“I’m planning to fuck you,” Malfoy whispered. “Unless you’d rather not.”

“ _Uhnf_ , yes, yes, please,” Harry said.

Malfoy grinned devilishly and Harry wondered why he had ever bothered with wanking to Malfoy when he could’ve had this so much sooner. The past few weeks were a blur of anxiety and exuberance, of being scared witless and finally feeling like he was in the right place.

They moved into the bedroom, and Harry flicked on the tableside lamp so they wouldn’t bang their knees getting to the bed. He fell back on it as the backs of his thighs hit the mattress, and Malfoy fell on top of him, kissing him again.

Somehow, though Harry had no idea, they managed to squirm out of their clothes, and then Harry lay back, panting with desire, his blood flowing like magic through his veins, as Malfoy stared down at him.

Malfoy grabbed his wand from his discarded coat and cast a charm. His fingers slicked. He bent his head to Harry’s neck, laved it with his tongue while reaching one hand down to rub at the entrance to Harry’s hole.

Harry spread his legs eagerly, allowing Malfoy to fit himself between his spread thighs, press one finger past Harry’s ring of muscle. Harry moaned, angled his hips even more, and Malfoy began to work his finger in and out, deliriously slowly.

Malfoy had Harry ready and begging in the course of a few minutes. He looked pleased with himself for that, but Harry didn’t care. He’d always been responsive.

Malfoy withdrew his finger, and Harry keened at the loss. Malfoy spread more lubricant on his own shaft, taking care to slick it up from root to tip.

“You ready?” Malfoy asked, his breath hoarse.

Harry nodded frantically. “Yeah, yeah. So ready.”

Malfoy grinned. He lined himself up and pressed forward slowly. Harry groaned, his hips canting, his hand coming down to stroke lazily at his own cock to take off some of the ache from adjusting to the intrusion. Slowly, slowly, Malfoy pushed inside until, at last, he was fully seated and left panting above Harry. Harry felt his body tensing and relaxing again and again, adjusting to Malfoy’s presence.

“Fuck, _go_ , Malfoy!”

“So demanding,” Malfoy murmured, but he seemed happy to comply.

Malfoy began a steady pace, drawing nearly all the way out before pushing home again, and Harry loved it. He held onto Malfoy’s hip with one hand, his other teasing at his own cock, his hips moving in time with Malfoy’s. Harry didn’t just lay back and take it; he actively sought it out, helped Malfoy fuck him as much as he fucked himself on Malfoy.

The whole experience was, to put it bluntly, the hottest thing Harry had ever experienced.

It didn’t take long at all for either of them. Harry, his eyes scrunched tightly closed, met every thrust with enthusiasm. He stroked his own cock with each of Malfoy’s thrusts, moans falling from his mouth.

And then he practically mewled, his hips jerking upwards and his hand stilling as come shot from his prick, coating his own stomach. Malfoy’s eyes followed the movement, his mouth falling open as he moaned and whispered words of encouragement, telling Harry, “Yes, come for me, yes yes.” Then Malfoy fell over the edge, his whole body seizing as he emptied himself into Harry’s arse.

Malfoy fell on top of Harry, breathing raggedly.

“Oof! Malfoy,” Harry said, laughing between breaths.

Malfoy ignored him. Harry couldn’t really blame him, as he was still basking in the first penetrative-based afterglow he’d had in ages.

“Not a bad showing there,” Harry added as an afterthought.

Malfoy harrumphed. “Not bad? Please. You loved it.”

Harry’s brought his hand up to stroke at Malfoy’s back and hair.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, after a moment.

Harry could _feel_ the way Malfoy smiled against his chest at that. Harry smirked, self-satisfied, but knew that if anyone could see his face right now, covered in sweat and red from blood-rush, he would look like a complete loon for Draco Malfoy.

*

The students filed out of Harry’s final class of the day, hopefully filled with the skills and confidence they would need for their end-of-term Solo Immersion Practical.

Harry sent a cleaning spell at the blackboard and the floors, where there was always a discarded ball of parchment or two after the students left. Dudley packed up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

“See ya, Harry—Oh, wait. Nearly forgot. Did all the parents return the permission slips this time?”

“All but Ms Lovecraft’s parents, but I’m giving her an extension for extenuating circumstances.”

Dudley grimaced. “She’s not taking it well.”

“No,” Harry agreed.

Privately, he hope he would be able to do something soon that would end her fears and worries, but he and Malfoy had, understandably, been putting it off.

“Okay, well I’ve got the first batch tomorrow,” Dudley said. “Portkeys are issued and we’ll head out in groups of three, as usual. Oh—hey, Draco.”

Harry looked up from where he was reading over the end-of-term practicals schedule. Malfoy was waiting for him by the door.

“I’ll leave you two to whatever it is you’re not talking about in front of me,” Dudley said, after a moment. Then he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and walked out of the room, barely fitting through the doorway where Malfoy was standing.

Malfoy’s gaze turned to follow Dudley’s exit, his eyes narrowed. He turned back to Harry, still frowning.

“He’s rather…obscenely muscular, isn’t he?” Malfoy observed. “I don’t think I realised the true extent until just now watching him use a doorway.”

“The girls call it ‘hench,’” Harry advised. “They think I can’t hear them giggling about it, but they forget adults have got Spying Spells, too.”

_“Hench?”_ said Malfoy, scandalised. “What on earth does that mean?”

“Like, really fit,” said Harry. “Because he lifts so much and basically subsists only on protein and fat.”

“…But what’s the etymology of such a word?”

“No clue,” said Harry. “I’m over thirty, remember?”

“Hmm,” said Malfoy, finally coming fully into the room. He leant his hip against Harry’s desk and observed him double-checking permission slips against the roster.

“Have you heard from Snape yet?” asked Harry.

Malfoy shook his head. “He’s not been back to the castle portrait. I suspect being dead has given him an entirely new set of priorities…and we the living aren’t it.”

Harry huffed. That was just like Snape.

“Can’t we, like, summon him or something?”

Malfoy shook his head. “His frame in the Headmistress’s office is the only official one. He can’t hear us through the ones in his office or either of our rooms if he’s not actually in the frame.”

“Well, let’s ask Minerva to use that one then.”

Malfoy gave him an annoyed look. “Are you really going to tell the Headmistress of Hogwarts what we’re planning to do? Are you insane?”

“Not entirely,” Harry said. “I was going to tell her it’s ICW task force business.”

“Do you really think she’d believe _you_ want to talk to Severus that badly, if you aren’t up to something?” Malfoy asked skeptically.

“No, of course not,” said Harry. “But she’d pretend she did for plausible deniability.”

“Gryffindors,” Malfoy said, sighing. He turned for the door. “Let’s go seal our fates, then.”

“Wait,” said Harry, jumping up from his chair and grabbing Malfoy by the wrist. “We don’t have to do this. It’s—honestly, it’s incredibly stupid. We’re consigning ourselves to an international treason trial. We’re going expose everything. We’ll be hated. We’re potentially putting everyone we love in danger from Muggles.”

“And if we don’t,” said Malfoy, “we’re _leaving_ them in danger from those…things. The Creators.”

“So, we do it then,” Harry surmised. He studied Malfoy’s expression, his eyes flicking over every inch of Malfoy’s pale skin. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

“I’ve so many of those I wouldn’t even notice another,” said Malfoy.

Harry suddenly wanted very much just to hug him. Instead, he just nodded and followed Malfoy to the Headmistress’s office.

Minerva eyed them both suspiciously over the rim of her glasses when they came in.

“Ahhh, Professor Potter, Professor Malfoy, have you come to discuss Hogwarts's policy regarding conduct in the workplace for romantically involved staff?” she asked.

“Er,” Harry began.

“I’ve read the handbook,” Malfoy said. “We are abiding the rules.”

Minerva’s eyes narrowed, a smirk pulled at her lips. “See that that remains true.”

“Right,” said Harry, nodding vigorously. They had _rules_?

“So why are you here?” she asked.

This, Harry could handle. “ICW task force business. Could we use your office to talk to Snape?”

“Our dearly departed _Professor_ Snape, _Professor Potter,_ ” Minerva said, “is still in Atlantis.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I reckoned we’d try to call him back for a minute. It’s kind of important.”

Minerva stared at them for several more minutes. “And you’ve elected to take this ‘ICW task force business’ through alternative channels of communication why?”

Harry and Malfoy just stared at her.

She sighed, removed her glasses, rubbed her eyes. “How much will I regret this?” She looked up at them, questioning.

“I imagine a great deal,” said Malfoy.

Harry shot him a look. “ _At first_ ,” Harry added. “At first. Afterwards, you’ll realise we were right all along, though you may still be disappointed.”

“Mother Morgana above,” Minerva groaned. She stood, gathered up her papers and came round the desk. “I’ve decided I rather need a cup of tea and the company of the staff room while I mark these abysmal sixth-year essays. I’ll see you at dinner.”

She gave them a stern look as she passed. The door snicked softly shut behind her.

Malfoy shook his head. “I can’t believe that worked.”

Harry shrugged. “Gryffindors, amirite?”

Malfoy walked behind Minerva’s desk, standing on his toes to reach the portrait directly behind it, which was always the most recently departed Headmaster or Headmistress. He tapped his wand to the portrait, murmured a spell.

Nothing happened. Malfoy yelled out Snape’s name, but still the man didn’t appear.

Eye’s narrowed, Malfoy tapped his wand on the frame one more time. Still Snape didn’t appear.

“He’s ignoring us,” said Malfoy. “I have another idea. Let’s go to your rooms.”

Harry liked the sound of that, but then Malfoy added:

“I have another way to get him to show up.”

They left the Headmistress’s office and went back down to Harry’s rooms by the Infirmary. Cliodne’s hounds let them in after the correct scratch pattern. Unfortunately, Malfoy didn’t take the opportunity to push Harry against the door and snog him senseless. Instead, he murmured a long, ancient-sounding spell over Harry’s adulterated Pasture-With-Scotties painting. He finished with a complex finger waggle, and then stepped back.

A moment later, Snape appeared in the frame.

“Tell me,” Snape bit out, “you imbeciles did not bind my already damned soul to yet another portrait in Hogwarts. Was it not enough that I already hang in Minerva’s office like a fucking boy band poster?” His black eyes flicked around the room and he grimaced. “God, it’s the fucking _dog_ painting in Potter’s rooms, of all undignified landscapes in the whole fucking castle. Draco, I am deeply disappointed in you. At least as disappointed as I was during your sixth year and no less disappointed than I was in every single class I had Potter in. God and Merlin, why have you fucking forsaken me—?”

“Sev, stop,” Malfoy said, bored.

“You didn’t say you were changing his portrait!” Harry said, covering his mouth. The idea of Snape having an official portrait in Harry’s rooms was kind of grim, but also kind of hilarious.

Malfoy rolled his eyes at him over his shoulder. “He’s being dramatic. What’s one extra portrait when he already has one here?”

Snape narrowed his eyes, gave Malfoy a flat look. “Of course, dear godson. You’re right, this is a _Hogwarts painting_. It’s not as if you’ve bound my eternal soul, or whatever this piece of me is, to an eternity at the beck-and-call of Hogwarts itself, is it? Except that is exactly what it is. Let me live, for Merlin’s sake. Without the whinging living to whinge at me.”

“We need you.”

“Of course you do, Draco,” Snape snapped. “Of fucking course. How might I abandon the very interesting manuscript on Panacea I was reading to assist you?”

“Can you get a message to the Queen?”

“I could’ve got a message to the Queen tomorrow!” Snape said. “I do visit the castle at least every other day. You didn’t have to tether me further to this fucking castle.”

“No, you don’t. You haven’t been here in a week,” Harry snapped.

Snape paused. “Really?”

“Death’s really going to your head,” Malfoy said, eyebrows raised.

“Anyway, it’s time sensitive,” Harry inserted. “We need a press conference. With Muggles from all over the world.”

Snape closed his mouth, his eyes flicking to Harry. “You are not,” he said flatly, “doing what I think you’re doing.”

“We’re doing it,” Harry confirmed.

Snape looked to Draco, who nodded. Suddenly, the angry lines of his face softened into something much less sharp. By no means soft, but no longer the slicing edge of a knife.

“Draco,” said Snape. “The Ministry will take any reason you give them.”

Harry didn’t need to be a Slytherin to understand the unsaid words there: _to arrest you again. To put you away forever. Maybe even to give you the Kiss_.

“Scorpius,” Malfoy said in reply.

Snape grimaced, but nodded. “When?”

Harry and Malfoy looked at one another. When would they be signing their lives away? Harry swallowed. A week. He needed a week with his family, with his students, to settle all his affairs.

“Saturday next.”

Snape nodded. “I will see it done. Expect another Portkey from the Queen this week.”

Then he was gone.

*

Harry was woken by an urgent pounding on his door. He shot up, scrambling for his glasses.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?” Malfoy growled from the other side of the bed.

Harry shook his head, even though it was dark. “No idea.”

He was already half out of the bed and through the sitting room by the time Malfoy snapped out a _Lumos_ and followed him in. Someone was still banging on the door.

“Coming!” Harry called.

He reached the door, pushed it open. Millicent Bulstrode was there, panting heavily, looking like she’d run to Harry’s door all the way from Hogsmeade. But why would she be there, when she had rooms in the castle?

“Mill?” Malfoy asked from behind Harry, his voice confused. “The buggering hell are you doing here?”

Millicent’s eyes were wide as saucers. She barely spared their naked chests and pants-clad bottoms a second glance as she pushed her way inside.

“Dud—Dudley,” she panted out.

Harry was instantly on high alert. “What? Is he hurt? What happened?!”

She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and Harry got the startling impression that _Millicent Bulstrode_ was barely holding back tears. Her hair was sopping wet and she seemed to be wearing only a haphazardly thrown-on dressing gown over men’s pyjama bottoms.

“He’s—he’s—”

Malfoy went over to the fireplace, called down for tea and a Calming Draught in clipped tones. They pushed Millicent onto the settee and shoved tea in her hands, but she just kept shaking her head, not even looking at the tea.

“Tell us what happened, from the beginning,” Malfoy ordered, and that, at least, seemed to snap her out of it enough to speak.

She nodded her head, swallowed.

“I was staying at Dudley’s tonight—we were up late watching the Man U game. We stayed up a bit longer…” She waved a hand, apparently to encompass ‘fucking’. “And I went for a shower. Dudley was already in bed…it must’ve been gone midnight by then. I came out, and the lights were out, but I heard something strange. Then Dudley started yelling, and I ran into the bedroom, and there were these…these _things_ in there with him!”

She really did start crying then, and the rest of the story came out between hiccoughing breaths. “They were like people, but…very different. And Dudley was still as a _Petrificus_ , but still screaming, only he couldn’t open his mouth. And they were Levitating him!

“I didn’t have my wand, so I punched the closest one to me and knocked it out cold, then I went for the other but it saw me coming, and it screamed something in this horrible language, and then this horrible green light came straight down and they both just…disappeared!”

She put her face in her hands and started bawling, while Harry felt his whole body disassociate. He looked on the scene as if from above, as if he was just a spirit of Harry and not Harry himself. He felt frozen, he felt like he were made of nothing.

He would’ve sworn his heart stopped beating and didn’t start again for minutes.

Dudley.

They _took Dudley_.

They _had him_ , up there, in one of those terrifying-looking spaceships, doing Merlin knew what to him. What if they were experimenting on him? What if they were torturing him? What if they were kil—

“Potter!” Malfoy said.

Harry slowly dragged his eyes to Malfoy, and felt the world rush in on him all at once. He was lightheaded; his legs wobbled. He stared at Malfoy, and for the first time in his life, honestly had no idea what to do.

“You said you knocked one out, right, Millicent?” Malfoy asked.

She nodded, face still in her hands. “After…after the other left, I _Stupefied_ it and put it in an _Incarcerous_ , just in case. It’s still there, probably.”

Harry shared a look with Malfoy. He knew what to do.

“What the hell are we waiting on? We’ve got to go get it!” Harry spun around, grabbing his shoes and jacket. “We’ll take the Floo—I have access to Dudley’s from here.”

*


	17. Chapter 17

Draco stepped out of the Floo into Dudley’s house in Hogsmeade. The place was the same neat and tidy set-up he’d seen when they came over to watch the football, nothing at all out of place to suggest anything untoward had happened.

But the air was prickling, a terrible eeriness that made Draco’s hair stand on end.

“I left it just in here,” Millicent said, still sniffling but making a valiant rally.

She led them into the master bedroom. The scene here was much different. There was a distinct smell of…something. Something strange, otherworldly. The carpet was sopping wet by the bathroom door, puddles of footprints darkening the carpet. A discarded towel lay on the floor. There was still heat emanating from the bathroom, the mirror still fogged.

The bedclothes were a disaster. A faint imprint where Dudley had been lying was still evident. Across the way, the telly was showing a dark-skinned detective, the show’s dark atmosphere very much something Severus would’ve preferred all his paintings to be in.

Draco glanced at the floor on the other side of the bed, nearest the bathroom.

“It’s there,” said Millicent. She was still white as a sheet as she pointed to the hidden spot.

Potter rounded the bed first, stopping abruptly at the foot. His face went bloodless, his fingers spread wide, as if looking for purchase.

“Christ,” Potter whispered. His voice cracked on the word, and he swallowed around it, shook his head as if to clear it.

Draco slowly approached, coming round behind Potter to glance over his shoulder. The being came into view and Draco gasped, grabbing hold of Potter’s biceps to steady himself and not remembering to let go until Potter made a note of pain, low in his throat. Draco loosened his fingers, but held on.

He’d never seen anything before that could have prepared him for this. Not the Manticores he’d seen on a family holiday to Japan when he was five. Not Dementors at thirteen. Not the shells of humans prisoners became after being Kissed, which he saw at eighteen, when his uncle was convicted.

“We came from _this_?” Draco managed to get out.

Potter shook his head dumbly.

Behind them, Millicent growled, “What? What are you talking about? Those things aren’t people! Just look at it!”

Draco did. It was bound up in three layers of _Incarcerous_ , and he felt a moment’s pride at Millicent’s skill with defence. She’d have to be skilled to be the lead professor, of course, but he’d never seen her use it in real self-defence before. Clearly, she worked well under pressure, but then, all Slytherins learnt to do that to survive.

The alien was deathly white, unnaturally so. There was no melanin to protect this creature from sunlight, suggesting it hadn’t left its spaceship for more than a few nighttime outings in generations. It was long and thin, lacking almost any musculature, its body more a vehicle for the mind. It wore a top and trousers, both made of the same shiny, unnatural-looking metallic fabric, and its shoes were no more than slippers.

But its face. Draco couldn’t stop staring at it, looking for similarities, for differences, for the one feature that would make him understand how humans had come from these beings.

Its face was long and thin, with a weak chin—a community that subsisted on soft, prepared foods that didn’t require much chewing. The cranium was much larger than a human one, and looked unwieldy perched as it was over such a gangly, weak-looking body. But there was a mouth in the right place, and a nose that reminded him more of the Dark Lord than normal humans, and two closed eyes above it—one beginning to bruise an awful shade of black from Millicent’s punch. It had no hair anywhere on its body that Draco could see. He had no idea if it was male, female, or if there wasn’t a sex at all. For all he knew, these beings didn’t reproduce like humans.

“Malfoy,” Millicent growled again.

He shook himself, let go of Potter’s biceps, and glanced back at her. She looked furious and terrified in equal measure. “What?”

“You said we came from them. What did you mean?”

“It’s something we heard from the Queen of Atlantis,” Potter, whose eyes were still glued to the alien, said. “She told us the story of how Atlantis came to be. And all the rest of us, too. We’re…we’re made from these people. They made us to correct genetic defects they’d introduced into their species.”

“They aren’t _people_.”

“They _are_ ,” Potter insisted, turning to face them both. “Look at them, they’re an advanced civilisation, they wear clothes and communicate and fly through the universe. They’re not humans, but they _are_ people.”

Millicent frowned, didn’t bother continuing on with that argument. “So how are we going to get Dudley back from these _people_ , then?”

She came around to stand right in Potter’s face, her expression hard. “Hmm? How the fuck are you going to save this day, Potter? You’ve got to have a plan. You always do.”

Potter’s mouth crumpled, and he shook his head. His eyes began to shine with wetness. “I don’t know. I have a plan, but it only helps us going forward. I don’t _know_ how to get Dudley back. I don’t think we _can_.”

Millicent punched Potter in the face.

He fell back, tripping over the alien and sprawling on the bed. “What the fuck!”

“You always have a plan!” Millicent said, and suddenly she burst into tears. “That’s what you do. You have plans and save the fucking day. You have to save the day now, too! You can’t just save the day when it’s Gryffindors; you have to do it for Muggles and Slytherins, too!”

Potter rubbed his jaw. He looked dangerously close to comforting Millicent, which was more than Draco could’ve done if she’d just punched him. Thankfully, she hadn’t. They could still figure this thing out. They just needed to get this alien back to the castle before it could escape, put a kettle on, and think this through.

They wouldn’t give up on Dudley. Draco liked him too much for that.

Just then, Millicent shrieked and stumbled backwards.

“Oh, fuck!” Potter yelled.

An otherworldly shriek came from the floor by Draco’s feet, and he stepped back right into Millicent, who held him steady. It was followed by a chattering language he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Draco looked down, and his eyes met another pair—huge, slanted, and black, with no cornea or iris. Just an endless blackness that sucked all the light right into it.

_“Stupefy!”_

The chattering stopped and the alien slumped back down into its _Incarcerous_. Potter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, pocketed his wand. Then he stood from the bed and went to—of course—comfort Millicent.

“We should interrogate it,” Millicent said, after a moment. Her mouth was hard.

Potter took a step forward, his hand on her arm.

She sneered at him. “Trying to make sure I don’t kill it?”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll leave it alive,” Draco said. “What use would it be to you dead?”

Millicent shrugged. “Could still take it on telly…show it to the Muggles. I bet at least a few of them know something about abductions and how to get home from them.”

“Muggles would say it was a hoax,” Potter said.

“They still will,” said Millicent, which Draco thought was rather perceptive, but then again, it was Millicent they were talking about. She’d been the most perceptive of all the Slytherins in their year. “But you’re right. I’ll have a better shot at convincing them if it’s alive.”

She prodded the alien in the neck with her wand, _Ennervated_ it. It hissed at her. Draco felt his blood run cold, but stood his ground. Fuck, Millicent should’ve been a Gryffindor.

“I know you understand human languages, you cocksucker,” Millicent growled. “Where did your friend take him?”

It ignored her, still baring its teeth.

Millicent switched to German. _“Wo hat ihn dein Freund hingebracht?”_

Still, the alien ignored her. She cast something red and sharp looking that left the alien shrieking and straining against its bonds. _“Sag es mir!”_

“Millicent,” Potter said, softly. “Surely this is a human rights violation. Er, an alien rights violation. Somewhere. An intergalactic one?”

Millicent rolled her eyes at him over her shoulder. “If your constitution can’t handle it, then feel free to leave the room. I know this fucker speaks at least one human language. It has to.”

“Why?” asked Potter.

“Well, if they made us, they’ve obviously been around our planet a long time, and I’d bet my last Galleon they’ve been checking in on us for just as long.” She waved her free hand at the alien. “Look at it. It’s blinking but it forgets sometimes. It doesn’t need to, but it does it for appearances. And it’s trying to cross its legs. That’s a human thing—cultural. It’s been around us a long, long time.”

Draco shared a look with Potter. The Queen had implied the same thing. How the fuck were they going to hide their whole planet if the aliens were already sneaking on and off it?

They needed to know more.

“We could try a translation spell, but Mother speaks Mandarin,” Draco offered. “It’s the most widely spoken language in the world. Maybe we’ll have a better shot with that.”

Millicent frowned. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They ended up dragging the bound and gagged alien through Dudley’s Floo to the one in the Manor’s parlour, though it was no easy task.

“Mother? Father?” Draco called, as he stepped out into the parlour.

Narcissa came in, wrapped tight in her dressing gown, a faint smile on her face, until Millicent and Potter stepped out behind him, the alien between them. She shrieked, her hand flying to her mouth. Lucius came running in, catching her before she stumbled backwards.

“What on earth is—Draco, _you brought that here_?!” said Narcissa.

“Good gods, son!” Lucius echoed.

“I know what it is!” Narcissa said, gathering herself. She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “I remember you,” she hissed, stalking towards the bound alien, her wand raised. “That day I lost several hours…this thing was there…I remember now.”

“You were abducted?!” Potter said.

Narcissa blinked coolly at him. “I was questioned, forcibly.”

“They took my cousin, Dudley, a few hours ago,” Potter explained. “Millicent caught this one, but the other abducted him and got away.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened further, then narrowed. She took a step closer to the alien, pressed her wand tip into its throat.

She switched, automatically, to Mandarin, her voice clipped and angry even in a different language. The alien, to everyone’s surprise, narrowed its eyes as she spoke, and then, after a moment, replied back.

Narcissa leant backwards, as if slapped.

“What did you say? What did it say?” Millicent demanded.

“He said…” Narcissa swallowed, gathered herself. “He said they’re here to kill our children and ensure we don’t continue to pollute the earth with magic. He said there’s enough of them to wipe us all out.”

“I’ll kill him myself,” Millicent growled. She shook the alien, said, “Where—is—my—boyfriend?”

Narcissa repeated the request in Mandarin, and the alien laughed—a horrible, shrill cackle more reminiscent of insects than people. It replied.

Narcissa curled her lip. “He’s aboard one of their ships with the others.”

“The other what?” asked Potter, desperately.

“Breeders,” said Narcissa, shortly. She rattled off something else in Mandarin, got a response, and said, “They use Muggles to reproduce—males to impregnate their females, females to carry their males’ children. They’re correcting their race with ours.”

“That’s exactly what the Queen said,” Potter said to Draco, worrying his lip. “This is happening so much faster than we thought.”

“What?” asked Lucius. “What are you talking about?”

“We went to the Atlantis—secretly,” said Draco. “Severus asked Potter to leave his portrait there when we went with the task force, and he got us a meeting with the Queen. She…she knew all of this. She was right.”

“What must be done?” asked Narcissa. She sneered at the alien, ground the foot of her boot into its toes, and it hissed in pain. “We must stop them.”

“You need to have the Portkeys ready,” Draco said, sharing a glance with Potter. “We’ve—Potter and I have come up with a plan, but there’s a small problem with it.”

“What?” asked Millicent, impatient. “I don’t even care what it is, so long as we get Dudley back.”

“The Queen gave us the spell they used to hide Atlantis from the aliens. Potter and I think we’ve worked out how to adjust it to hide the whole planet, but it’s going to require power amplification, and the only way I’ve found to do it is to incorporate an ancient spell that used Muggles as conduits.”

“Draco, we simply don’t have the political capital to withstand the firestorm that would result if we killed Muggles—” Lucius said.

“No,” Draco interrupted. Merlin, of course his father would jump to that first…though oddly, so had Potter. “Living Muggles. Volunteers.”

“Ah,” said Lucius. “And I take it the families of Muggleborns who already know of magic would not be enough?”

“No,” said Potter. “Not nearly enough.”

“I see,” said Narcissa, her hand back over her mouth.

“You’re going to break the Statute?” Millicent asked. “After all the work you just did sorting it out?”

“Not like the _Obliviates_ did any good,” Potter muttered. “But yes, we’ll have to.”

Millicent thought this over. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” said Draco. “We’ve scheduled a Muggle press conference on Atlantis. The Queen’s bringing in press from all over the world to cover it.”

“ _The entire world_ , Draco?” Lucius said, aghast.

“Thus, the Portkeys,” said Draco, nodding. “You’ll need to get out of here before the Ministry come here to question you.” He turned to Millicent. “And if you let us take the alien with us, we will show it to the Muggles.”

“Not a chance,” she said. “I’m not letting this thing out of my sight again. I’m coming with you.”

“Millicent, we’re planning to break an international law, in case you missed that part,” Potter said. “We’re going to most likely end up in Azkaban by the end of this.”

Neither of them made mention of the fact that they were likely to end up there without their magic. Not that it would make much of a difference in gaol.

“And you’re telling me you wouldn’t do the same if it was someone—someone you loved up there in one of those horrible ships?” Millicent demanded. “Fuck that, Potter. I aim to find out what Muggles know about getting abducted and how to get home again, and I know some of them are out there. If you’re going on telly, that’s where I want to be. I’ll take my chances. When do we leave?”

Which was how they implicated Millicent in their plot for international treason.

*

McGonagall screamed when they brought the alien through the Floo into her office. She was still screaming when Potter stepped through after Millicent and the again- _Stupefied_ alien.

“What is that?! What is that?!” she kept yelling, her finger waving towards the unconscious being on her floor.

“They took Professor Dursley,” Millicent said, her mouth only barely trembling on his name. “These things. I caught one, but they got him and took him up in this beam of light, right into one of their…their flying ships!”

McGonagall fell back into her chair, hand over her mouth. The commotion had woken the other headmasters, even Dumbledore, who slept more than any dead portrait Draco had ever seen.

And it had attracted Severus, who was like a fly to rotten misery.

“What has happened?” he demanded.

Potter ran through the story with a minimum of detail, and even Severus looked horrified at the end.

He shook his head. “They’ve already begun. Perhaps the ICW will now see the course you’re choosing to take is the only one.”

“What are you talking about, Severus?” McGonagall snapped.

Severus merely smiled at Draco and Potter. “Nothing, Minerva, that you’ll want to know of in advance.”

“Who cares about any of that,” Millicent said. “I aim to take this thing on telly tomorrow and show it to all the Muggles, so I can find one of them who knows how to get home from these UFOs so, for the love of Merlin, call the staff together, Minerva, and let me show them this creature before the Ministry or the ICW or some fucking Men in Black steal it from me. I need witnesses. Magical ones, with credibility. And they need to know about Professor Dursley.”

She fortunately said nothing about breaking the Statute at the same time.

“Yes, yes of course,” said McGonagall, snapping out of the frozen stare she’d been giving the still _Stupefied_ alien.

They filed down to the staff room in silence, Potter Levitating the creature alongside him. They found seats around the fire, left the creature tied up to the long table in the room. Everyone who entered after them gave a little shriek or jump or was otherwise startled, but Draco couldn’t devote much brain space to their reactions anymore. He was slowly sinking into what was probably shock.

The house-elves brought tea and Draco grabbed a cup gratefully, cradled it between his hands while he just breathed in the smell of chamomile. It was nice, but he wished the kitchen else would serve normal tea for once. The voices in the staff room rose all around him, but he couldn’t hear them. It must’ve been going on three in the morning by now. His vision was slowly tunnelling, until all he could see was his whitened fingertips against the reinforced, old china of the Hogwarts tea sets.

“Professor Malfoy—Draco!”

He looked up. Mr Lao was sitting next to him, leaning into his face. Draco blinked.

“You’re in shock,” said Mr Lao. He gently took the chamomile tea from Draco’s hands and replaced it with hot chocolate.

“Thanks,” said Draco. He took a sip and immediately started to feel warmth and alertness flow back into him. “Thanks,” he said again.

Mr Lao studied his face for a moment longer, then nodded. “I never thought I’d see one of these, you know. And now that I have, I wish I hadn’t. I think we’ll all need chocolate tonight.”

“You knew about them?” asked Draco. The chocolate was definitely helping, and he felt his body responding to him again, his limbs flowing with blood.

“I’m Muggleborn,” said Mr Lao, by way of explanation. “I don’t know that I believed in them, but I certainly heard stories.” He glanced at the being on the table, shaking his head. “They look almost exactly like all the reports of sightings through the years. Seeing one here now, it’s so clear that they’ve always been here. We just never believed in what we didn’t want to see.”

He sat back, gave Draco a sturdy squeeze on his shoulder, and then went to distribute more hot chocolate to those fluttering on the edges of losing their minds. Draco watched him talking to Justin Finch-Fletchley and Morag McDougal, then Trelawney and Professor Flitwick.

Across the room, Astoria caught Draco’s eye. Even sitting by the fire, she was pale. Her eyes were wide as they locked onto Draco’s.

He took a moment to wonder who the fuck had their son before he remembered he would be sleeping with Albus Potter and the Demiguise-dog. Ginny was not in the room, though Luna was. At least someone was with the boys.

Astoria glanced at the alien on the table, back to Draco. Shakily, she lifted her cup to him. He nodded. Then she put her head in her hand and didn’t move again for the rest of the meeting.

Though he’d been distracted for most of the discussion, the only conclusion the group had come to was that they should either alert the ICW or not. The vote was split.

“We will _not_ ,” Millicent said, voice strident. “They’ll just take it away and I’ll never get—we’ll never retrieve Professor Dursley. I’ve already _told_ you: I caught this creature and I’m taking it alive to every news outlet I can get to, until I can find one of those Muggles who’s been taken away and returned again, to find out how to get Professor Dursley home.” She glared around the room. “And I dare any of you to try to stop me.”

There was silence.

“You’ll need help,” said Dennis Creevey. “Muggle authorities will certainly try to apprehend you and take the alien. I’ll be your bodyguard.”

Millicent narrowed her eyes at the presumption.

“And me, too,” said Luna.

“And me,” said Justin Finch-Fletchley. “My parents have some connections we can use to get a prime spot on BBC.”

Millicent frowned, glanced at Draco. “Professors Malfoy and Potter have already volunteered. I don’t want anyone else caught up in this. I appreciate your concern, but we’ve got it sorted. I just—I need all of you to see this, to understand what’s out there, beyond our wards. What we can’t see. It’s beings like _this_ , and they plan to kill everyone with magic.”

“What?!” exclaimed Pansy. “You can’t be serious!”

“I should’ve mentioned,” Millicent said. “We interrogated it before we brought it to Hogwarts. It understands Mandarin Chinese, but nothing else, so far as I can tell.”

“Who do you know who speaks Mandarin?” Pucey asked, baffled.

“Narcissa Malfoy.”

“And Mrs Malfoy said it’s going to kill us?” said Theodore Nott, skeptical as always.

“They want to live on our planet and breed with humans, but they think magic’s dangerous, and they intend to wipe it out first,” Potter offered. “Killing magical people is the first step to them moving in, so to speak.”

People around the table curled their lips. Longbottom looked furious; Luna horrified.

“What do they want with Dudley?” Hannah asked, hand to her mouth. “He doesn’t have any magic!”

Millicent went green. “They’re using him to breed with their females. They’ve got all sorts of Muggles up there in their ships.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to know what they do with them when they’re done.”

After that, the conversation turned from what to do with the alien to prepping Millicent for an interview on Muggle telly. The Muggleborns and half-bloods had a lot of insight on things to say and not say, which Draco found helpful, too.

But mostly, he was relieved they’d stopped suggesting they take the alien to the ICW. No one had any faith in that body, or the Ministry, to keep the UFOs’ inhabitants from killing them all. Draco finished his chocolate in silence, having nothing to add. It seemed like ages before the staff broke up to try to get an hour or two of sleep before morning.

Potter followed Draco to his rooms, having released the alien into Hogwarts’ care—they’d secured it in the dungeon away from windows in case any of its comrades returned for it before Millicent had had a chance to take it on the telly. The whole staff had added layers of protection to the room, and while they’d left its legs under _Incarcerous_ , the kitchen elves had set out a few food options with water, in case it woke from its _Stupefy_ before Millicent et al. got it to the press conference.

“Can I stay at yours?” asked Potter, as if it weren’t a foregone conclusion by now that they’d sleep together.

Draco glanced at all the windows around his set of rooms, way at the top of the Transfiguration Wing tower. “I was actually thinking of sleeping down in Severus’s old rooms tonight.”

Potter followed his gaze and nodded. “Right—I dunno how close I want to be to the alien, to be honest, but I think I’d rather that than up here, all exposed to the sky.”

That was Draco’s thoughts, too. He grabbed his nightclothes and a frivolous book he knew would take his mind off things, and they headed down.

The dungeon was colder, more oppressive than Draco could ever remember it being. Their footsteps echoed on the flagstones and Draco tried to ignore the fact that if they just turned left towards the Potions lab instead of right towards the dormitories and Severus’s old quarters, the alien would be there.

They came to a hidden stretch of wall and Draco put his hand up to the fourteenth un-chipped stone. He whispered Severus’s last password, and the wall dissolved into a door just wide enough for them to enter.

It still smelled like him, Draco thought as they entered. That same herbal mix that had always reminded Draco of the digestive bitters his parents served after dinner parties. As if Draco’s godfather had just been here, breathed in, and breathed himself out into the room.

Draco ignored it. He led Potter through to the bedroom, which was bare and minimalist like Severus himself. Just a troll-sized mattress on a plain frame. No headboard, no footboard. There were no windows, not even looking out into the lake. The bedclothes were unmade. Sev had always been too pragmatic to bother with making the bed and he refused house-elves from entrance.

Draco curled his lip, cast several thorough cleaning spells over the bed and furniture. The thick fog of dust that had risen up when they entered disappeared, taking Severus’s scent with it.

Silently, they undressed, and climbed in Severus’s bed. Draco curled around a pillow, felt Potter curl around his back, and wished he was small enough to still be comforted on his godfather’s lap. Wished he didn’t have his own son to take care of now. Wished Severus would hold Draco’s face between his too sharp fingers, bend into his personal space and tell him, like he always had, ‘You are only as strong as you make everyone else believe you are. Show me your strength, and if I believe it, you’ll believe it, too.’

He didn’t even read the book. In the end, the rhythm of Potter’s breathing lulled Draco to sleep.

*

Draco woke the next morning feeling like he was still in a nightmare. He blinked up at the endless darkness all around him, his body tensing with adrenaline, before he remembered they were in the dungeons; they’d slept in Severus’s quarters. There were no windows here.

Beside him, Potter slept on, his breath slow and warm against Draco’s cheek. He was curled around Draco like a drowning thing, and somehow that made it easier for Draco to calm himself down and pull himself up from the bed.

He needed to check on the—the thing. And Scorpius, too. One last time before they did this—before they changed the entire world.

“Malfoy?” Potter whispered, voice muffled.

“Mm?” said Draco, fumbling for his wand in the darkness. He had no idea how Severus had lived like this.

“What time is it?”

“Surely morning,” said Draco, though he couldn’t be certain without a _Tempus_ , or, you know, windows. Finally, he found his wand, swished it. “Six twenty.”

Potter yawned, pushed himself up to sitting. He snapped his fingers, illuminated by the blue light of Draco’s time charm, and his wand sailed into his hand. “ _Lumos_. God, what was Snape thinking.”

“He had insomnia,” Draco said, with half a mind. “The darkness helped him fall asleep.”

Potter grunted in response. Apparently, he wasn’t quite as nostalgic about Severus as Draco was.

“Shall we get this over with?” asked Potter, sliding one leg into yesterday’s trousers.

Draco sat at the side of the bed, staring into the darkness. “I hate that we’re condemning Millicent.”

Potter glanced at him, grimacing. “She knows the stakes.” He tilted his head, his hands working at the buttons on his jeans. “But I’m still hopeful. Ready?”

Draco nodded.

Potter went up to his rooms to grab a few things while Draco deliberated on whether or not to look in on Scorpius before they left. He needed to see him one last time, just in case things went wrong—but it all felt so...so final. Childishly, he thought that if he didn’t say goodbye, he’d get to come back to Scorpius when this was all done. And Scorpius was still sleeping anyway.

Potter met him back in the dungeons an hour later. He pressed a toastie into Draco’s hands while he shoved another in his own mouth. Their footsteps echoed as they took the corridor to the room the alien was tied up in. Draco’s breath ghosted in front of his face; he’d forgotten how cold the dungeons got in December.

The door was already open and un-warded when they got down there and Draco felt a moment of terror before they pushed inside and found Millicent sat on a chair, facing the alien who was only feet away. She had her wand pointed in its face and it was baring its teeth at her.

Millicent glanced over her shoulder when they came in. There was no sign of her tears from the night before left on her face. She looked angry, her face hard and unreadable like it had remained all through school.

“Just checking to make really sure it really, really doesn’t understand English,” she said, by way of greeting.

Draco snorted. Potter looked conflicted; Draco suspected his internal Gryffindor was at war with itself, not sure whether to take the moral high ground or do whatever possible to get his cousin back.

But either way, Draco didn’t like how cold Potter’s hands were when they pressed against Draco’s on the Portkey. He hated the thought of Harry Potter being scared. It made it harder for him to be brave. Draco took a deep breath.

They were all three hesitating. Millicent had the alien under a Disillusionment, tied to her own body.

“Ginny and Luna have the boys,” Potter said. He gave Draco a keen look. “I went by to see Albus. You didn’t want to say—?”

“No,” Draco said quickly.

He couldn’t say goodbye. He’d changed his mind—if he saw Scorpius, said goodbye, it would make all of this too final. He had to be optimistic. He had a plan to stay out of Azkaban after breaking the Statute of Secrecy, but he couldn’t account for every variable. They had to be able to adapt.

This was _the right thing to do_. Even Potter agreed. That had to count for something.

Potter gave him an indecipherable look, his face somehow both sad and knowing, and stepped up closer to Draco. His fingers as they touched Draco’s hand were still frigid, but his breath was sweet and warm against Draco’s lips.

“We _will_ come out the other side of this, Draco,” Potter said against his mouth. “Believe in us.”

Draco felt strangled, caught between laughing and breathing Potter in. “How can I believe in you,” Draco said back, “when your body has obviously redirected all your blood flow to limbs more useful for a flight response?” Pointedly, he squeezed Potter’s fingers.

Potter laughed, kissed him, and it was still new enough and unexpected enough that Draco felt sparks burst inside him when it happened.

“You should know, Malfoy: I’m always scared. Literally all the time. Voldemort, yeah, he was scary, but public speaking? In front of boredom-prone teenagers? Terrifying. And then there’s parenting, which makes me constantly want to vomit down my own shirt with terror. Especially because—well. And the UFOs. I don’t know if you really get it, but growing up Muggle, there was a very different response to stories like this, and seeing them real, come to life, is like every horror film in existence happening right in front of me. I have been on constant high-alert since this began, and I’m sure I’ll stay that way until it’s over. However it’s over. But that doesn’t mean you can’t trust in me. I’ve always been scared to death. And I’ve always made it through okay. We’re going to make it through, Malfoy.”

Draco made a small noise, low in his throat. He pulled away from Potter, fumbled for the Portkey. “We’ll figure it out,” he allowed. “Are you ready? Should we get this over with?”

“Fucking finally,” Millicent muttered. “I was getting ill at your display.”

Potter grinned at them both. “Let’s do it. Getting things over with is more my style, yeah.”

He reached out and wrapped one hand around the glass fizzy drink bottle and another around Draco’s wrist. “We _will_.”

Quite unbidden, Draco suddenly remembered fourth year, when he’d first noticed Potter on a broom. Really noticed him. He’d spent the next three years living out pathetic fantasies in his head.

Fantasies where Potter flew to him after a game, kissed him in the stands, sneaked down to Slytherin for heated, heady snogging in Draco’s bed. He’d wanted that so badly for so long. And then he’d forgotten it.

And now he had it, had something with Potter, and it was good. But it was so different from his teenage fantasies. What would it have been like if Potter had noticed Draco then instead of now? What would it have been like if—

This was nonsense.

Draco activated the Portkey.

*


	18. Chapter 18

There were already tonnes of reporters gathered in Atlantis when they landed. Not nearly as many military personnel, but then again, most of them were still pointing their missiles at the island, convinced it was a spaceship itself. Still, there were a few, and that was reassuring.

Harry had known it would be a crowd; he hadn’t realised it would be this big. Which was stupid, of course. They’d wanted as many people as possible there. Queen Sostrate had said she’d make it happen.

She had.

Their Portkey took all three of them plus the Disillusioned alien to the Queen’s private garden. The reporters and other assembled Muggles were already waiting, some with cameras already rolling. There were scattered shrieks of alarm as they materialised in the garden, and Harry had his wand out immediately before he realised what was going on.

“I thought a dramatic entrance might help,” Queen Sostrate said by way of greeting. She furrowed her brows at Millicent, and then seemed to peer right through the Disillusionment on the alien—her eyes went wide, and she nodded at Millicent.

“Help whom?” Draco muttered, but he was ignored. Several of the reporters were peering at them curiously, trying to figure out how they had appeared.

They quickly introduced Millicent, quietly explained the Disillusioned alien she had tied to her wrist. The Queen accepted this new information without missing a beat.

“Your Majesty, is Snape here?” Harry asked the Queen. “His portrait?”

Sostrate tilted her head. “The easel just there.”

Harry looked and found Snape watching the assembled crowd through narrowed eyes. He’d obviously been still enough that no Muggle had yet noticed he was alive. Harry gave him a wave, surprised at how jerky the movement was. He took a deep breath. He could do this. They _were_ going to get through this.

And Harry was going to use every single pull his name could get for them afterwards.

Hopefully, they’d have a successful presser to back him up—one where Muggles learnt of their existence, but didn’t freak out. Hopefully the ICW would see it wasn’t so terrible after all. Hopefully, Muggles themselves would not be terrifying. Or terrified of them.

The Queen stepped forward and a hush fell.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming.”

Immediately, a flurry of people began talking in low voices in dozens of languages. _Translators_ , Harry realised. Muggles didn’t have translating spells. The Queen paused to give them time to translate, apparently used to this from all her meetings with Muggle world leaders.

“As you know, I have been working with your government leadership for some weeks now. In that time, I have been sharing important information regarding Atlantis’s origins and the time we spent hidden from the rest of the world. Some of this has been shared with you through your government representatives, and some has been withheld.

“Today, with the permission of the European Union and a handful of other countries, we will be sharing all of that information with citizens of the countries represented here. It is not my concern what happens with the information after that.”

A snort came from Snape’s portrait, and still, no one seemed to notice he was living, although a few people seated nearest did look around curiously.

“First, allow me to introduce my honoured guests today. Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, and Millicent Bulstrode have come from Scotland to assist me today. They are experts in their respective fields, though, I daresay even our representatives from Scotland will not recognise them.”

She paused, let the translators catch up, and then continued:

“You may have noticed I have been…coy with a number of details. I know the sudden appearance of my country has been alarming. The explanation for that I have tried to have released, but some countries—including Somalia, Syria, South Sudan, Bahrain, Eritrea, North Korea, Azerbaijan, the Central African republic, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Belarus, and the United States—have elected not to permit press coverage of this event or any of the information I previously released to their delegations.

“Now, we come to a turning point. The information I shared with these leaders and others was two-fold: of a worldwide threat facing our planet, and of a way to counter that threat. The time has come to act, and this action will require the input of many people, all over the world. We will need _your_ help.

“And for you to help, you must be made aware of other circumstances. These circumstances have been in existence nearly since humanity itself. That circumstance…is the existence of magic.”

People shuffled, looked around at one another with confused, awkward grins. A few chuckled. Most looked bemused to some degree, and uncomfortable to another.

“Did you not see them arrive?” Sostrate asked, archly.

“Your Majesty!”

The Queen nodded to the man in the front who’d spoken without a translator, but with an Italian accent.

“Oronzo Lencioni, _la Repubblica_. Surely that was an illusion. A stage trick.”

She smiled grimly. “We suspected it would be difficult to convince you, Mr Lencioni, thus my three guests. You see, I once had control of magic, too, but lost the ability when I hid my country from our…returning threat. Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter both have the ability to control magic, and will be demonstrating for you presently. Ms Bulstrode, I believe, has something to show you at the end.”

She stepped back and held her arm out for Harry and Malfoy to step forward. Harry glanced at Malfoy as they did, wondering if the other man felt just as wrong-footed by this introduction as he did—or if it was simply the knowledge they were about to irrevocably break the global Statute of Secrecy.

“Good morning,” Malfoy said, right away, his voice clear and steady.

Harry let out a relieved little breath, glad at least one of them knew what he was doing.

“My name is Draco Malfoy. I am from Wiltshire, England, and come from a pedigreed line of over three-hundred generations of magic users—wizards and witches. Currently, I am Professor of Ancient Magical Cultures and Spellcasting at a school for magical children in Scotland. My colleague, Harry Potter, is also from a long line of magic users, though his mother was the first in her family to display magic. Magic is something that can crop up among families without it, but it’s quite rare without at least one magical parent. Harry teaches a course called Non-Magical Immersion—”

Harry glanced at him sharply, but Draco ignored him.

“That is,” Draco continued, “teaching magical children how to interact with non-magical people through immersive activities. For many centuries, our communities have been mostly separate, so it is a skill they need in order to operate in your world. Since the times of the Inquisition and so-called ‘witch-burnings,’ we have kept to ourselves. Though only a fraction of the people killed during those times were actual magic-users, we preferred to be safe rather than sorry.

“The unfortunate result was total separation of our two cultures. And we _are_ a culture. We are many, many cultures, actually, but we are all over the world. In every country, we exist. In nearly all, we have remained hidden, at first due to our own fear of non-magical people, and later because of law. An international body, the International Confederation of Wizards, established a global law in 1692 that prevents any magic-user from revealing, through action or inaction, the presence of the ‘wizarding world’. By doing so today, Harry and I are committing a grave act of international treason. We therefore ask your cooperation, attention, and kindness, as it is unlikely we will be…free to provide this demonstration ever again.”

This time, the hush was heavier.

All eyes and dozens of video cameras were on Draco. A number of reporters held tape recorders out with one hand and scribbled notes on their pads with the other. Draco scanned the crowd and then nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Our goal today is to demonstrate magic to you in order to convince you of our community’s existence. We understand there are non-magical people who perform ‘tricks’ that look like magic, but this is not that. You may take turns checking us for hidden devices or props, but please—no more than two or three at a time, and keep the floor clear for the cameras.

“Now,” Draco said crisply. “Our first spell will be _Accio_ , a spell that Summons an item to the spell caster. You’re free to hold up anything you’d like to be used for the spell.”

Hands shot in the air right away, holding pads and pens, mobiles, hats, and even a pair of trainers. Harry pulled his wand and aimed at one of the trainers.

“ _Accio_ left trainer,” he said, enunciating for the cameras. The left shoe zoomed from the woman’s hand to his. Her eyes blew wide and her mouth dropped open. Harry gave her a kind smile, trying to reassure, and Summoned the right trainer too.

Malfoy Summoned a mobile from the Italian reporter. They had to stop for a dozen urgent questions from the assembled, but when they returned the items on offer, the reporters checked them over for strings and, finding none, returned to their seats dumbfounded.

“Next, we’ll Transfigure a few things,” said Malfoy. “Transfiguration is the art of changing one thing to another. It is easiest to Transfigure things with similarities—four-legged animals to four-legged animals, homonyms, things that rhyme, and so on. Magic is an art, not a science, and it has a sense of humour, so sometimes the connection is a metaphorical one. In our first year, for example, we began by turning matches into needles—because of the similar size and shape. Queen Sostrate—would you mind?”

She dipped her head, called for the elf, Galene, and spoke to her quickly. The shrieks from the front row at Galene’s appearance drowned out her request, but when she returned, the elf set five ripe apples before Harry and Malfoy’s feet.

Harry’s stomach chose that moment to growl and he realised he’d forgotten, in his haste, to eat more than a toastie that morning. What a time to remember.

“We’ll take suggestions for five Transfigurations. Potter, you can go first.”

Harry nodded, looked out to the crowd. Immediately, they started shouting things out—oranges, tomatoes, cricket balls, a laptop computer, even an elephant, which Harry grimaced at. A woman in the front row was furiously scrolling her mobile and then stuck her hand up and shouted, “a rose bouquet!”

She was so much like Hermione in that moment that he felt an odd, wistful pang. “A rose bouquet,” he agreed, and pointed his wand at the first apple. He bit his lip, concentrating, imagining a bouquet of red and purple roses. When he had it fixed in his mind, he swished his wand and let the magic roll out of him.

The apple morphed into a lovely bouquet of red dahlias, and he laughed. “Sorry, I was always a bit rubbish at complex Transfigurations.”

Draco rolled his eyes, swished his wand, and completed the Transfiguration to roses. Then he bent and grabbed the roses before handing them to the woman who’d made the suggestion.

“These will last for a few weeks before they turn back to an apple. I’m afraid neither of us used the permanence technique.”

She nodded, eyes wide, as she took the flowers from Draco. He did a series of four more transfigurations—some of them even more complex for lack of apparent similarity. Each apple became a cast iron frying pan, a working pocket-watch, a plush dog, and a snail.

Then the questions came again.

“How did you do that?”

“Can anyone learn to change objects into other objects?”

“How can you prove there aren’t any hidden props?”

At the last, Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Draco, less aware of Muggle magicians and their tricks, looked stymied. Harry spoke up for him.

“The best we can do is keep showing you, letting you touch our hands and arms while we cast, check us for strings or hidden items. Perform magic on you, if you’ll let us. That might be easier to believe. Anyone?”

Literally everyone’s hand went up. Harry chose a man with a briefcase sat next to his chair, and said, “I can make that briefcase big enough to hold your entire closet and still make it through the security line at the airport.”

His translator rushed through a translation, and then man’s eyebrows went up, settled. He nodded once to Harry and held it out.

“Mr Konya Koetsu of _Japan Today_ says ‘yes,’” the translator relayed.

“May I open it?”

Mr Koetsu nodded again.

Harry unlatched it, neatly avoiding the combination lock with a whispered _Alohomora_ , and laid it out flat on the grass. Inside, there were two straps holding back a MacBook and some notepads, a pair of trainers and gym shorts, and an empty Lara Bar wrapper. Harry pushed the shoes, shorts, and wrapper to the side and pointed his wand at the now empty side of the briefcase. He twirled his wand and said the words just as Hermione had taught him during their year on the lam, and smiled when it immediately expanded in size to a six-foot deep, four-foot wide container beneath the normal-sized opening.

Harry sat on the grass, tossed one leg then the other over the side, and slid down into the briefcase. He could just barely peer over the edge and wave at the crowd. The man who owned the briefcase had jumped up, stumbled backward with his hand over his heart. He babbled something in rapid Japanese to his translator and his camerawoman, who’d gone pale behind her camera.

“You can join me in here,” Harry said to him. “There’s enough room for both of us.”

The translator relayed this, his voice rising in pitch with each word. The reporter hesitated for only a second before coming over, peering carefully down into the briefcase where Harry stood. The walls were still lined in a lovely, soft cognac leather with expensive detailing, but it was now several times larger than it had been before. Mr Koetsu sat on the grass and carefully swung his legs into the briefcase as Harry had done before sliding down.

They stood facing one another inside the briefcase. Mr Koetsu’s breath was fast and ragged, and Harry was barely keeping his own under control. He tried to smile reassuringly, but was fairly sure it came off looking deranged.

Suddenly, Mr Koetsu called out in rapid Japanese and both the translator and the camerawoman approached.

“Mr Koetsu asks his camerawoman to make sure she gets a good shot of this,” said the translator. “Mr Koetsu wants it filmed from all angles.”

“Do you believe me, Mr Koetsu?” Harry asked him, still standing only inches apart.

The translator relayed this, and Mr Koetsu shook his head rapidly, but it was more in denial than in negation.

_“Hai,”_ he breathed. _“Hai, hai, hai.”_

The translator swallowed, said: “Mr Koetsu says yes.”

They climbed out of the briefcase with Draco’s help and Harry dusted his trousers off. Camera flashes had been going off the whole time, but it was the moment he and Mr Koetsu stepped out of the briefcase that Harry really noticed. He was dizzy, trembling. Low blood sugar, Hermione might say. Adrenaline, Ron might.

Harry offered to return the suitcase to its normal form, but Mr Koetsu declined. He closed it up and held it to his chest the remainder of the presser, as if afraid it would run away.

“Anyone else?” asked Malfoy, and Harry gave him a grateful smile for taking over again.

Seeing Mr Koetsu begin to believe had been oddly emotionally draining for him. Maybe it was the confirmation that they’d really broken the Statute. At least one new Muggle believed them—a Muggle in the press, no less. There was no guarantee that anyone would believe the story he wrote, but for now, they had convinced one.

And they were now, officially, criminals.

“Thècle Coquelin,” said a ginger woman without aid of a translator. “ _Le Monde_. Can you change the colour of my suit?”

“I can,” said Malfoy, “but it’s a very nice vintage Chanel. Are you sure you want to risk it?”

At this, she grinned at him. “But as it’s a vintage, I wasn’t able to find it in the colour I wanted. I would like it red.”

“As you wish,” Malfoy said, and flicked his wand over her suit. It took a few adjustments for him to land on the exact shade she wanted—and then to make the spell permanent. On a whim, he changed her Louboutins to match, and she looked delighted.

Malfoy gave Harry a look over his shoulder. Already, they were getting into dangerous territory. This couldn’t become a ‘norm’.

“Mister Malfoy, Mister Potter!” one of the reporters—the one who’d reminded Harry of Hermione—called. “Puebla Piazza, _La Prensa_. I am live streaming this conference, and my viewers are finding it hard to believe without seeing magic firsthand. Is there anything you can do to prove magic exists for people not present today?”

Harry frowned. He’d thought the briefcase was pretty convincing. 

“I have one—very invasive—idea,” Malfoy said quietly. It was meant for just the two of them, but no doubt at least some of the video cameras’ microphones picked it up.

“What?”

Malfoy swallowed. “Well, since we’ve—ah.”

Harry tilted his head, his lips teasing upwards. “Yes?”

“Well, we’ve experienced one another’s magic in a rather intimate way, and we are in practice representing the entire magical world right now, so we could, in theory, convince magic to let us speak to the whole world using a particular communication spell.”

Harry scrunched his eyebrows. “What now?”

Malfoy grimaced. “It’s an ancient Chinese ritual—a very short one. Developed for one of the first Emperors to allow him to speak to all of his subjects personally. I think it was his wife who ended up using it, actually—he was rather a recluse—so it’s already adapted for spousal use, thus our...ah, ability to take advantage of it after...well. It takes a good bit of magic to perform, but since we’ve—ah—we could tap into one another’s magic and use it to send a message to everyone.”

“Everyone,” Harry repeated flatly. “Everyone in the whole world.”

“All six-point-nine billion,” Draco agreed. He cleared his throat. “By name. And we could do Muggles only.”

Harry laughed, amazed. _What Statute of Secrecy?_ he thought, rather wildly. _Fuck it_. “All right, let’s do it.”

Malfoy gave him a shaky smile. “Right.”

He turned back to the reporters and government officials and gave his winningest smile. “We have an idea. We can send a personalised, visible message to everyone in the sky directly above their own heads. It will have their name, a small symbol, and a short message. What would your viewers like us to say?”

Ms Piazza blinked, looked down at her mobile and scrolled quickly through a dozen or more messages. After a moment, Ms Piazza looked back up and said, “My viewers have requested an image of a double rainbow and the message ‘What does it mean, ‘name’?’”

Harry and Malfoy gave one another bewildered looks. Harry shrugged. He had a feeling he was missing out on some grand joke, but whatever would convince them.

“Okay,” Malfoy said, drawing out the word in his poshest, most subconsciously twatty voice. “Please have your viewers go outside or stand near a window with a view of the sky. The spell will only last for ten minutes.”

He turned to Harry and held his hand out. Harry grasped it on instinct, stepped closer. “What does a double rainbow look like?” he whispered. “Do they mean, like, two rainbows stacked on top of one another or two arches—like an M?”

“How in Merlin’s name should I know?” Malfoy asked. “Let’s go with stacked. Keep your wand away and just lend me your magic, since I know the spell.”

Harry nodded and wrapped his free hand around Malfoy’s wand hand, their fingers intertwining as they had that first night, when—

Malfoy took a deep breath and Harry followed suit. Slowly, he started chanting, _sotto voce_. The words were barely audible and completely unintelligible to Harry’s ears, but Malfoy sounded composed and confident. He’d done this spell before—certainly not on this scale, but at least to his mother’s Dalmatians or his friends. Harry felt the magic rising, felt his own drawing forth in response to an unheard call. It swirled through his body, down his arms, and into Malfoy’s own.

Then another rushing surge and Malfoy said, clearly: “What does it mean, loyal spirit?” and the magic soared out of them, a fountain of gold streaming lights straight up that the Muggles could see.

All at once, those assembled began to yelp, give low whistles, as they looked at something only they could see. A few took out their mobiles and snapped pictures of the empty air before them, then the rest followed.

Harry let out a heavy breath, gave Malfoy a small smile. He felt woozy, drunk, and—odd. Like the magic had changed something in him he didn’t even know was there. It was almost like he could still feel the magic sloshing back and forth between them, like Harry was still sharing his magic with Malfoy—but also that Malfoy was somehow sharing his with Harry.

_“What does it mean, Criston. What does it mean, Dylan. What does it mean, Rob. What does it mean, Reyes… Brock… Braden… Joaquin… Enzo…”_ read Ms Piazza. She looked up at them, shaking her head slightly, just as Mr Koetsu had done. “They are posting pictures of the spell—they all saw it. Many viewers in Argentina, and others who have logged in from United States and other countries that denied coverage of this event.” She looked around to the other reporters. “Are any of you live Tweeting? What are your readers saying?”

Translators scurried to relay this question, but already reporters were reading messages from their mobiles:

_“What does it mean, Aurelia,”_ the reporter from Poland said. _“What does it mean, Rafal.”_

_“What does it mean, Chaiya… Pran… Ananda… Orapan…”_ read off the one from Thailand.

On and on they went. They all saw it. Every Muggle in the world—or at least the ones who’d managed to get outside.

“It’s trending,” said the reporter from the Republic of Ireland. “Hashtag what does it mean.” She scrolled through her mobile, shaking her head. Checked her watch. “There’s still seven minutes left. People are rushing outside to take a look. God, people stuck on the Metro are going to be livid.”

“It appears your people now believe our claim,” said Queen Sostrate, elegantly stepping forward and drawing all attention to herself. “Good. It is my greatest desire that our people—magical and non-magical—can once again live in peace together, as we did during my original era. Another piece of information I have already shared with most governments—and which some have shared with their citizens—is that Atlantis is a place out of time. We truly did exist, originally, when your myths said we did. As I understand from the current Gregorian calendar, it was about 11,600 years ago when Atlantis disappeared from the earth. There followed a great flood, which many of your histories also report.”

She took a few steps forward, called Galene’s name. Galene appeared with a lovely embroidered chair, which the Queen sat upon, before popping away again. She popped in thrice more with chairs—not quite as lovely—for Harry, Millicent, and Malfoy. Harry, still feeling the dizzying aftereffects of their ancient Chinese communication ritual, sat gratefully.

“Now, I will tell you the history of the world and all people in it,” said Queen Sostrate. “It’s a long story, but an interesting one.”

Nearly every reporter and government official leant forward in their seat, pens ready.

Sostrate began with the earth and its swampy, primal beginnings. She painted a vivid picture of the lakes of fire covering all the land, the toxic air. It was in many ways the same story she’d told them just last week, but still vastly different. This was a story meant to be remembered, told by someone who knew the theories of oral histories and traditions. She had a natural talent for it, a low, soothing voice that changed with the ebbs and flows of the story.

And when she came to the aliens—the Creators—there was a noticeable stirring among the crowd. Even Muggles had seen the ship over London, though most had tried to explain it away as a military plane. The uptick in strange things—crop circles, livestock mutilation, people losing chunks of time—was thought to be pranks, psychopathy, and neurological concerns.

Harry kept an eye on the livestreaming reporter, Ms Piazza; he watched her face for reactions when she switched from notes to checking the feed. He wanted to know what those outside of this small press conference were thinking, but she gave very little away.

Sostrate continued on, telling how magic came about and the threat it represented to the aliens. She was careful in how she phrased their response to it, but left no doubt the danger they posed to magical and non-magical alike. When she finished, by telling the story of Atlantis’s hiding from the Creators, of how she and her council lost their magic in the process, of how magic chose this time to bring them back because this was when they were needed, there was a silence.

For a long moment, none of the reporters or officials said a word. Then one of their mobiles chimed and he dropped it on the grass, his fingers clumsy with the same sort of adrenaline Harry knew all too well by now. But it broke the spell, and people started shouting questions out, not even bothering to raise their hands first.

The Queen answered dozens of questions with grace. Everything from ‘What happened to others on your island with magic?’ to ‘Do your people realise what has happened to them?’ to ‘How did the spell that hid your island work?’ All of these, she responded to evenly, with detail and an obvious personal knowledge of her subjects.

Harry leant, briefly, against Malfoy’s shoulder, gave him a little smile. It wasn’t going too badly. They’d done it. They’d seriously, actually, completely destroyed the Statute of Secrecy, and it was fine. Muggles didn’t—immediately—hate magical people, which meant they had a chance to save themselves. They had a chance to fully come out of hiding and intermingle with non-magical people, become one people.

But then came a different sort of question.

“If I may be so bold, my readers have asked: How do we know you aren’t the extraterrestrials, Your Majesty?” asked the Irish reporter. “The people of Atlantis, I mean. You did just appear out of nowhere, and some have said that the tsunami created by your return—which killed over a hundred people worldwide—could only have been caused by a large object striking the earth at a specific speed. Is this island a space ship?”

The Queen gave her a confused smile. “We are not. Atlantis is solid land.”

The reporter bit her lip. “Well—can you prove it?”

“You can dig in the ground if you like and see how far you get. I can prove we are very similar blood to all of you. I am willing to provide a sample.”

“But you said you’re not exactly the same as us. Your island evolved separately from the rest of us, so your DNA is likely to be slightly different.”

“But still human,” said Sostrate.

“Yes, thank you, your Majesty, but you said the extraterrestrials are also similar to us—that we’re made from their DNA.”

“Where I’m very similar to the rest of you,” the Queen said, “they are much different. Evolution has changed us dramatically.”

“We don’t, as it happens, have an alien whose DNA we could sample to compare, though,” the reporter continued. She looked truly apologetic, which Harry had never seen before on a reporter.

“But I do,” Millicent spoke up, for the first time.

Millicent immediately had everyone’s attention. She stood, bent down and heaved an invisible alien up, plopped it in the chair. Then she dismissed the Disillusionment.

“Jesus Christ!” someone yelled. The sentiment was repeated in dozens of languages.

“I caught this thing last night,” Millicent said.

“How?” asked a reported in the front.

Millicent frowned, her mouth trembling for a nanosecond before she brought herself under control. “It and another like it came into my boyfriend’s bedroom and abducted him. I was in the shower, came out when I heard a commotion, and found them. I knocked this one out, and tried to go for the other, but it took my boyfriend, Dudley Dursley, a non-magical person, and lifted him through the ceiling on a beam of green light.”

“Ms Bulstrode, you’re saying an alien abducted your boyfriend,” one of the BBC reporters said, disbelieving.

Millicent narrowed her eyes. “You’re saying you’ll believe in magic, but you won’t believe in alien abductions when I’ve got one right here in front of you, living and breathing?”

The reporter looked chastened, but continued, “It could easily be someone dressed up in a very good costume. Movie effects are quite good these days.”

Millicent waved her hand at the alien. “Come take a look then. Poke it, prod it, take some blood samples, I don’t care. If you got someone who speaks Mandarin, come talk to it, even. That’s the only language we know it speaks.”

The translators went to work, and suddenly, one in the back called, “Ms Liu Ping, from _Beijing Today_ , speaks Mandarin and would like to interview the extraterrestrial.”

Millicent waved her forward. Ms Liu stepped forward, her legs stiff, but her face determined. A cameraman and translator followed.

Millicent conjured her a chair, and blinking rapidly, Ms Liu sat in it, facing the alien. Hesitantly, she said a few words.

The translator jumped into action: “My name is Liu Ping. What is your name?”

“It has no name…”

“Where are you from?”

“Eight point six one one light years from this solar system…the brightest star in the Earthly sky…the weaker of the two stars in the system…my planet was there long ago.”

There was muttering among the reporters, and the livestreaming reporter announced, “Evan from San Francisco says this references the Sirius B star in the Canis Major constellation.”

“Have your people taken humans from earth?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

There was a sudden explosion of sound. People screamed as wizards in the notorious robes of the ICW burst into the garden, wands raised.

“Drop your wands, you are under arrest for attempted breach of the Statute of Secrecy!” an American voice yelled. Harry would’ve curled his lip at that obnoxious twat from New York, if he hadn’t been busy with other things. He, Malfoy, and Millicent dropped behind their chairs and hid, as Galene popped away with the Queen and Snape’s portrait.

“Potter, Malfoy!” the ICW man continued. “We had reports from Muggleborns of your little trick for the Muggles. Come out and submit to arrest so we can get on with _Obliviating_ these…Muggles.”

“Fuck you!” Harry called from behind his chair. “We warned you about the aliens, but you wouldn’t do anything so we had to do it for you! They’ve already seen it all on live telly. The Statute’s gone, and so are we!”

He grabbed Malfoy, who grabbed Millicent, who grabbed the alien, and they spun away, back to Hogsmeade, on their Portkey.

*


	19. Chapter 19

“We are fucked,” Draco cursed, dragging Potter through the secret tunnel in Honeydukes cellar, Millicent following with the bound and Stupefied alien.

He was furious with himself for not having thought of the possibility of the ICW figuring out what they were doing _before_ they finished, and coming up with a solution for it. He knew better than that. Lucius and Narcissa had certainly taught him better.

He heard footsteps above and pulled them to a stop, pressed against the stone walls and breathing as silently as possible. He’d used this sneaking spell—unfortunately, largely employed by burglars—all through fifth and sixth year to sneak down to the pub with Pansy and Blaise. In seventh year, they hadn’t had the guts to try it, though they’d needed an escape more than ever.

He’d never once been caught or alerted Mr and Mrs Honeyduke, but with his luck…

The footsteps remained two floors up, in the living quarters, and Draco let out a relieved sigh. “Come on,” he whispered.

Potter, strangely, seemed to know exactly where to go, which was just like Potter. Of course he’d know Draco’s little secret. Millicent Levitated the alien through the tunnel, not taking particular care to keep it from bumping the rough stone walls. They were halfway to Hogwarts and the statue of the young hag when Potter grabbed his wrist and pulled him to a stop. Millicent nearly ran into them and the alien’s head banged the wall.

There was very little light, only what shone from their _Lumoses_ , which were already weakened from all the magic they’d used earlier. Still, Draco could make out the colour of Potter’s eyes, the serious set to his mouth.

“What?”

Potter swallowed; Draco watched the shadow of it move along his neck before his eyes flickered up again.

“We knew this was a possibility,” Potter said. “We knew it could go wrong. Even if it went right, the ICW still would’ve tried to take us down.”

“I was hoping we’d be able to bank on your stupid name a bit longer,” Draco sneered.

“I’m still hoping for it,” Millicent muttered.

Potter laughed. “Me too, actually. And—we may yet be able to, when this is all over.”

“It’s over now,” Draco said. “We broke the Statute, confirmed the existence of extraterrestrials, and now we’re criminals at large. Criminals who didn’t get to gain the trust of the Muggles we needed to do the bloody spell, or the chance to even tell them about it. I completely broke the Statute of Secrecy, and it was all wasted!”

“For Merlin’s sake, Draco,” Millicent sighed. “Get it together. It’s hardly the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

Draco ignored her.

"The Ministry may not have heard yet," Potter said. "We only saw ICW wizards, they're probably preoccupied starting the extradition process against us right now. Plus, the ICW's pretty useless—they might not even think to contact the Ministry for a bit. In which case the Ministry might not find out until the Muggle papers run tomorrow. We have some time. We can make a new plan."

“We should’ve made a _better_ plan _before_ ,” Draco snapped, but he was just as angry with himself as he was with Potter.

He’d unwittingly spent the whole week in a defeated rut, just trying to get through the motions, make sure Scorpius knew he loved him, and plan the spells they’d use for the presser. He had stupidly thought they’d be able to get what they needed from Muggles before the ICW caught up to them. And then he’d stupidly hoped that by the end of it, the ICW would see they were right all along and not charge them with international treason and a basilisk-long list of other things.

“Well, we didn’t,” Potter said, and he sounded just the way Draco felt.

“For fuck’s sake,” said Millicent. “While you two are making mooncalf eyes at one another, Dudley’s cock’s being used to impregnate some hideous alien cunt, so if we could all focus on what fucking matters here—which is, by the way, retrieving my boyfriend before they feed him carb-y prison mush and getting these goddamned aliens off of our planet—and not what the ICW thinks, then that would be fucking great.”

Potter bit his lip, holding back a smile. “Right. Thanks, Mill, for keeping us on task.”

“Yes, thanks,” Draco said, a bit snidely. He couldn’t help he was a bit off, right now.

“How _are_ we going to rescue Dudley?” Potter asked, as if it had just occurred to him.

“Muggles will contact me and tell me how they got home from their own abductions.” Millicent seemed confident in this.

“But how are they going to contact you?” asked Potter.

“Potter,” Millicent said, flatly. “We need to talk to the Headmistress, tell her we’re going on the run so she can take care of our students and classes, and then get the fuck out of here. Stop asking stupid questions and _move it_! We’ll figure it out!”

“She’ll turn us in, you complete, stupid wanker!” Draco hissed.

“She won’t,” Millicent said with certainty. “You know how she loves a good rebellion.”

Draco couldn’t help snorting at that. It released some of the wound up tension in his gut and shoulders. He felt simultaneously keyed-up and drained, and his magic was off, wonky feeling, like it was still seeping out of his body, or like Potter’s was still seeping into his own, which was—frankly—terrifying and impossible. Improbable. Deeply inconvenient.

“Fine.”

They continued the rest of the way in silence, and Potter knew exactly what to do to get the hag’s statue to jump aside for them, which confirmed Draco’s suspicions. They trekked up to the Headmistress’s office without running into any of the other staff or prefects. It was nearly midnight back in Greenwich Time, and the castle was quiet.

The gargoyles guarding McGonagall’s office had a Scottish brogue. Draco was not sure if that had been there during Dumbledore’s time, but he was dubious the same.

“Scottish Folds,” Potter said, seemingly keeping himself from laughing by the barest of margins. Draco didn’t know what was so funny; they were perfectly good cats.

Despite the hour, they didn’t have to wait on the Headmistress to come down from her rooms. McGonagall was awake and at her desk when they reached the top of the stairs. She looked at them over the top of her square glasses, frowning.

“What on earth are you three doing in my office at—” she glanced at a cuckoo clock with a suspiciously damaged cuckoo—midnight?”

Potter was not one to mince words.

“We broke the Statue of Secrecy. Severely.”

McGonagall paled, stared at them, and then waved them into chairs, which were red tartan.

“ _That’s_ what you wanted with Severus? I thought you were just going to show them the alien! On _purpose_?” she asked.

“Very much so,” Draco affirmed.

“Well, we showed them the alien, too,” added Millicent, gesturing to the still-floating creature—it was rather more bruised than it had been before.

McGonagall pursed her lips. “Why?” It was barely a question.

Potter launched into their story with much more defensiveness than Draco thought prudent. It was never good to show your enemy you knew you’d fucked up. Yet, on he trundled, over-explaining every little thing.

Halfway through, McGonagall removed her glasses, closed her eyes, and began rubbing the bridge of her nose. She didn’t stop rubbing it until Potter finished the story, at which point she rubbed her temples instead.

“You realise I originally volunteered you both for the Atlantis task force to _prevent_ a breach of Statute, correct? And you, Professor Bulstrode—I thought we were just showing Muggles the extraterrestrial? Not magic!”

“It was Professor Snape’s idea,” Potter said helpfully, which was very close to a lie in Draco’s opinion. Definitely lie-adjacent. “We had to do it because we need Muggles’ help to cast the modified Atlantis spell that will protect us from the UFOs.”

McGonagall glared at an empty portrait next to Dumbledore’s. Dumbledore was not sleeping, but in fact wide awake and puffing on a pipe with apparent enjoyment as he listened to the story, nodding along. He looked entirely too pleased by the turn of events for Draco’s tastes.

“Hogwarts won’t be able to shelter you,” she said at last, sighing on the words. “I really can’t say what the Ministry will do, perhaps some residual goodwill towards Harry will help you three, but that doesn’t solve the ICW. They’ll be out for blood, you can be sure.”

“We’re going to have to hide,” Potter agreed. “I know. But, there’s so much left to do. We’ve convinced Muggles magic and aliens exist, but that’s only half the problem. Now, we have to find a way to speak to them again and see if they can help us keep the aliens out _and_ figure out how to get Dudley back.”

“We have some ideas,” Draco said quickly, before McGonagall could rail them for putting the carriage before the Thestral.

She closed her mouth, still frowning. “I hope you three know what you’re doing. This could be a disaster—for all of us.”

“I know,” Potter said, firmly, “but it will be an even bigger disaster without Muggles standing with us for the spell. I’ve no doubt of that. This wasn’t a choice for us, Headmistress. There _was no_ choice at all.”

McGonagall slipped her glasses back on her face. “I’ve put my faith in you before, Professor Potter. I daresay I can do it again.” She turned then to Draco and Millicent, adding, “And I have never doubted either of you your resolve, Professors. Have the elves help you gather what you need and leave the castle within the hour. I won’t be able to _self-Obliviate_ more than that from my mind. I’ll be sure to pass this information to your families before I do. None of us will be able to be charged with complicity that way.”

Draco swallowed. He’d wanted to see Scorpius just once more before—but she was right. He couldn’t risk his and Astoria’s safety.

“I want Albus to go to the Burrow so he’s out of the public eye,” Potter said firmly. “And Scorpius, too. And make sure they keep my dog with them at all times—she can fight off the aliens, if they come.”

“I will see it done,” McGonagall said. “That is, if Mr Malfoy agrees—?”

“Ast…” Draco swallowed. “Astoria has full custody of Scorpius now. I made arrangements earlier in the week. But she knows the importance of keeping Scorpius with the Demiguise-dog.”

McGonagall nodded. “All right then.” She picked up her quill and returned to her work. “You’d better leave now so I have time to create a false replacement memory. Make sure you order the elf you work with to never reveal anything it sees or does tonight. They are bound to senior staff as well as to the Headmistress.”

“Thank you,” Draco and Millicent said.

“Yes, thanks,” Potter echoed.

They stood, and Potter and Draco made their way out of her office and up to Potter’s rooms, while Millicent ran to her own to pack her necessities. From there, they called an elf to them—not Kreacher, since the Ministry would question him first—and sent her to gather Draco’s most important books, clothes, money, and a few treasured pictures of Astoria, Scorpius, and his parents. He wished he could tell Pansy where he was going; wished he could say goodbye to her. But he couldn’t put her in that position. He couldn’t drag her into scandal again, not when she’d finally redeemed her own name.

Potter, meanwhile, was rushing around his rooms gathering books, papers, a Muggle laptop, a plushie from his son’s room, and tossing clothes onto his sofa. Draco took the opportunity to remove the Scottie landscape from his hearth and shrink it down.

“Where is that fucking thing…” Potter muttered, as he destroyed his rooms.

“What are you looking for?”

“The tent!” Potter snarled. “I hate this fucking tent. I said I’d never step foot in it again, but I kept it anyway because I’m paranoid and the opposite of optimistic.”

“Pessimistic,” Draco supplied.

“Yeah, that one. Hermione always said I was a pessimist.”

“ _Accio_ Potter’s tent,” Draco called. A gaudy purple bag on the floor started wiggling wildly and Potter jumped on it, making an ‘Ah ha!’ sound.

“I must’ve buried it in there hoping to never see it again,” he said, stuffing a small folded tent-set into his pocket. The detritus he’d tossed onto the sofa he stuffed back into the same purple velvet bag, which Draco suspected may’ve once contained middle-class liquor.

“What else?” he said to the room at large.

“Food,” Draco said, just as the elf he’d called returned with a rucksack full of his things.

“Right—Misty,” Potter said to the house-elf. “Please pack us enough food for three people for a month. Things that will stay fresh. Whatever you like is fine.”

“But please include some coffee,” Draco said. He was not willing to rough it until he was convicted and well behind the unforgiving stone walls of Azkaban.

“Yes, Professors. Misty will return presently.”

The pop of her Disapparition left a vacuum feeling in the room, empty and drawing in. They were mostly packed but neither was ready to go. Potter looked at him and then wouldn’t stop—just kept on staring at Draco as if Draco were the only solid thing in the room. He rather felt like he wasn’t.

“Malfoy, I—”

Misty returned then with a canvas bag stuffed full of food. Draco didn’t know what was in it, but his gut was roiling and he didn’t think he’d be able to stomach food for days anyway.

“Thanks,” Potter murmured to the elf, without looking away from Draco. “Misty, I command you never to speak of what you have seen or heard in this room tonight, or the tasks you performed for me, to anyone.”

“Misty understands.”

“Thanks. You’re free to go.”

She left with a pop, and that vacuum-feeling returned again, or maybe it’d never left. Draco felt as if he’d never really seen Potter before this moment. Here he was barely keeping it together, and Potter was not much better off, but obviously competent and capable of survival. Draco appreciated that in a person. He valued his own quite highly, but until now, he’d never realised that Potter valued his own life all that much, too. Seeing him now, fighting for _himself_ , made something in Draco twist oddly.

“Right then,” Potter said, his voice crackling. “Let’s get Millicent and get out of here.”

Draco followed. Whether Potter was leading him to hell or salvation, he didn’t know. But he was going anyway, and all he had to trust was this fresh, trembling realisation that Potter wanted to live, too. And when they got out of this shit, Draco was going to make damned sure Potter did that living with him.

*

Millicent met them outside the gates, the alien still bobbing along behind her and a bag thrown over one shoulder.

“You’re not seriously bringing that thing with us,” Malfoy said.

She gave him a withering look. “I fucking well am,” she said. “You think I’m giving up our one source of information before I have Dudley back?”

“Ugh,” Harry said. “I really am not looking forward to camping with a captured alien.”

“I’m not really looking forward to any part of this, Potter, and yet I’m still doing it because I fucking well have to, so let’s get moving.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said.

Harry had the vague thought they should return to Atlantis, take shelter in a neutral zone where they knew they had at least two friends in Snape and the Queen. He thought it would be the last place the ICW would look, since they just left it, but the ICW figured them out before they could go.

“The Portkey’s not working,” Malfoy muttered, frowning down at the conch shell. “It was a multi-use—it should take us straight back.”

Harry grimaced. “They’ve probably put a moratorium charm on international Portkeys.” He remembered them from the six months of Auror training he’d sat through before realising he had no interest in being an Auror. “They’re all blocked.”

Malfoy gave him a frustrated look. “How are we going to get out of here then? We’d be better off hiding in the Come-and-Go Room.”

Harry blinked, stared at Malfoy, who stared right back for several seconds before grimacing and looking away.

“You’re right. It’s probably not…suitable.”

Harry really had no idea what was going on in the Room of Requirement, and he did not relish being the person who found out. His ear had begun to ring as he remembered the last time he’d been in there.

“Where, then?” Malfoy asked.

They were back to Harry’s original plan. He patted his jeans pocket. “Come here. Let me Side-Along us all.”

Looking very put-out, Malfoy stepped into Harry’s space and allowed himself to be wrapped in one arm. Millicent dragged the alien in on his other side. Harry pulled them in, concentrated, and turned. They pulled away from the Hogwarts gates through the blank void in-between, which always gave Harry a bit of a nervous twinge, before popping out the other side.

“Cornwall,” he said. “It’ll be a bit warmer here.”

They were in a copse of trees that had lost most of their annual leaves already. The ground was crunchy-cold and the wind was ghostly, but at least it wasn’t snowing. He pulled the tent out and set about erecting it with half a mind, while he rummaged in his sack for his laptop. He could easily jump on someone else’s WiFi from here—it was a very useful spell Hermione’d come up with when she and Ron lived at the Burrow—and they would be able to have a basecamp here away from Muggles and wizards alike.

Malfoy changed his and Millicent’s features and clothes, and they’d popped into town for some dinner and to see what they could make of the townspeople. How they were acting, what they were thinking.

Their pops of Apparition left the forest feeling even emptier than before. Harry took the opportunity to see what he could find on the internet. He pulled his laptop from his bag and opened it, fixing up the spell that would let him leech someone else’s WiFi miles away.

It took the work of a few minutes to scan the news leads, and as he’d expected, the Atlantis press conference was in almost every one of them. Their faces were viral on Facebook, Twitter, BBC, the _Guardian_ —everywhere. GIFs of their presser were in every Twitter feed. Close-ups of the alien’s conversation with Ms Liu were trending. The video had already been uploaded to YouTube and watched over one million times.

People everywhere were chatting about magic, about their hidden world, and the aliens surrounding all of them. Muggle-borns and tech-savvy half-bloods were sharing their experiences—and their own demonstrations of magic—on social media, with seeming relief at no longer having to hide.

If there’d been any doubt, there wasn’t anymore. Muggles knew of magic. And most of them believed in it.

They’d succeeded in utterly destroying the Statute of Secrecy. And now they only had to make good use of it.

Harry suspected the excitement would taper out over the next week to a dull thunder, and he hoped opinions would settle as positive views of magical people before Harry, Millicent, and Malfoy needed to ask for their help. So far, no militaries had made further advances against Atlantis—or other magical communities. But it was early hours still. Only a portion of people seemed to think magical people were aliens, but that ratio could easily flip in the wrong atmosphere.

He really wished he could have done more to shape that atmosphere positively.

But he couldn’t. Not now, at any rate. Now, they needed to lie low and figure out their next move. Before the ICW caught up with them. No doubt the Ministry, bumbling as it was, wasn’t far behind, either.

He wished he could talk to his family, to Hermione. Get her advice and tell them all he was sorry for doing this without telling them, but not sorry if it saved their arses from certain death. He wished he could talk to the Queen, or Snape, or Dumbledore, or anyone who had more sense than him and Malfoy and Millicent—which, given their actions, could be argued wasn’t much.

He wished he could talk to Albus and tell him he loved him, and he was always thinking of him, even though most of those thoughts were anxious worries about how to keep him alive when they hadn’t managed it with James.

Harry closed his laptop and set it on his bunk, stepping out of the tent for some fresh air. Maybe have a think.

The forest was thin. Thin enough they could see the stars above. Malfoy and Millicent returned after half an hour with a bag of deliciously greasy-smelling fish and chips.

Harry and Millicent ate them in front of the tent while Harry charged his laptop with his wand. Afterwards—warm, full, and with his mind think a thousand thoughts at once—Harry lay back on the crunchy ground, head pillowed on his arms. The sky down here was different from that at Hogwarts. They were close enough to town that the light pollution from the village blocked the whole of the Milky Way, leaving only a few handfuls of stars visible.

It reminded Harry, strangely, of living with the Dursleys, and those hot nights he’d hid out in the back garden to escape them for a few hours.

The reminder, this first free moment to really think since Dudley’s abduction, made Harry’s heart ache painfully. He laughed, and it nearly turned into a sob. If his eleven-year-old self had known he’d one day be desperately sad and worried about Dudley’s safety—that he’d do _anything_ to get him back…

Draco joined them with a half-cone of chips remaining. He ate with grave dignity, despite the grease on his fingers.

Harry wondered if Petunia knew…if it would be kinder to tell her or not.

“What’s so funny?” asked Malfoy.

“I never thought I’d give a fuck if Dudley lived or died, and now I’m ready to kill three dozen of these invading arseholes to get him back.”

Millicent eyed him narrowly as she munched on a chip. “Dudley’s a good man, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry said, letting out a huge breath. Sometimes, it was hard to reconcile the man Dudley was today with the boy he’d been. “He really is…Do you think we should contact my aunt and tell her?”

“She knows,” Millicent said. “I said his name on the telly.”

Harry sat up abruptly. “That’s right. Fuck, she’s going to lose her mind.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling oddly guilty. Fuck. He sighed, turned back to the problem at hand.

“I was thinking,” Harry said, “we could try to figure a way around the Portkey block. Sostrate still has an army and enough magical people to protect the island, even if she doesn’t have all the current Muggle tech. All we need to do is get the spell done to fight the aliens, and then I can try pulling the Boy-Who-Lived card to get us leniency.”

“Great,” said Millicent, shoving another chip in her mouth. It took Harry a moment to realise this was the first time he’d seen her eat carbs in years. “What’s the spell you keep talking about, then?”

Malfoy sighed. “We need to cast the spell to hide the planet from the aliens, and to do that, we need about one percent of all Muggles on earth to volunteer to be magical conduits.”

Millicent raised one eyebrow. “No big deal, then.”

Harry shared a look with Malfoy.

“There’s also the small matter of the spellcasters likely losing their magic,” Malfoy said quietly.

Millicent stared at them in stunned silence.

Harry rolled back over, flat on his back. He had spent the first eleven years of his life without magic, the next nineteen years ensconced in it. He didn’t want to go back to that life before, what little of it could be called ‘life’.

Magic was part of him, and the only thing that had made life worth living many times over. He wanted to die with a wand in his hand, even if the last thing he did with it was Summon his cane.

But now there were other things that made life worth living—Albus, of course. Always Albus. Gin, who was probably the best ex-wife in existence. Hermione and Ron, who would always be his first and best friends. The Weasleys. The knowledge that something as amazing as Hogwarts even existed. His rekindled relationship with Dudley—saving Dudley from these things. His students.

Malfoy.

Harry was Professor of Muggle Immersion. If anyone could live without magic, it was him.

He had a safety net. He could get through this—maybe he wouldn’t even need magic afterwards. And he would make sure they didn’t go to Azkaban, even if they lived on the run for the rest of their lives.

But mostly—Malfoy.

Harry had not realised how much he needed—or wanted—Malfoy until these past few months. Malfoy had come in—slithered in, really—and attached himself to the one open port in Harry’s life: someone else who really saw the world for what it was, for what it wasn’t. For what it could be, and what it needed to be that.

Malfoy didn’t put his head in the sand. He saw the spaceship and he acted. He didn’t hope it would go away. He didn’t pretend it’d never been.

And he was here now, with Harry—a pure-blood who’d willingly broken the Statute of Secrecy only hours before. And he was willing to give up his own magic.

Something in that made Harry’s stomach feel odd.

If Malfoy could do it, so could he.

“Well, I reckon that’s a small enough price to pay,” Millicent said at last.

Harry gaped at her.

“You’re joking,” Malfoy decided.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “Dudley’s not got magic and he does just fine, doesn’t he?”

“You teach DADA…” Harry couldn’t help adding.

She shrugged again. “So I’ll go teach Muggle self-defence afterwards. Who cares? If we don’t do this, arseholes like this—” she prodded the _Stupefied_ alien with her boot—“are going to keep showing up and trying to kill us. The only thing that’d save us then is a modified _Avada Kedavra_ that could mow a hundred of ‘em down before they could even take a step, and I don’t know that I’d really want the Unspeakables looking into a spell like that.”

“Right,” Harry said, after a moment. “Then, the next thing we need to do is find a way to coordinate with volunteer Muggles and…and just do the spell.”

“No, the next thing we need to do is find the Muggles who know how to get off those spaceships,” Millicent said.

He felt Draco shift beside him, and then their sides were touching, warm and perfectly fitting.

“Fuck, I wish we could’ve finished our press conference,” Harry said. “Asked for volunteers then and waited to see if any of those reporters’ viewers had information on abductions.”

“We need to find a way to get in front of the Muggles again,” said Millicent. “We need visibility.”

“Just what I always wanted: to be arrested by the ICW on international Muggle telly and die in Azkaban, sharing a cell with Harry Potter, magic-less,” said Malfoy.

Harry laughed. “You had weird fantasies, Malfoy.”

“You haven’t even seen the extent of my fa—”

Malfoy stopped abruptly. He sucked in a sharp breath of air and then forgot to release it.

Harry followed his line of sight and felt his whole body freeze. That strange sort of terror you got in nightmares, when you knew you should run, fight— _anything_ —but couldn’t move. That fear when you just sat there and let yourself be slaughtered like cattle because your whole brain shut down from the overload.

He was _Stupefied_ without a wand. Just a ship. A single, massive, black ship gliding slowly above the trees. It was shaped like an arrowhead, a shark’s tooth, which the logical part of Harry’s brain said was likely for aerodynamics (were those even necessary in quantum travel?). The primal part of Harry’s brain said, ‘Fuck, that’s scary-looking.’

“It’s another,” Harry said, senselessly. “What’s it doing here?”

“Looking for Millicent’s prisoner?” Malfoy suggested. “Patrolling?”

Their voices were unnaturally quiet, as if the beings on the ship above could pick them out from ten-thousand or more feet away.

“But—patrolling for what?”

Malfoy shook his head, crinkling the leaves beneath it. “I have no fucking clue. Did they see our presser? Somehow? Do they have tellies?”

“I—” Harry hesitated. “I really fucking hope not.”

Surely the aliens hadn’t seen them, right? It had seemed as though they were so distant, only popping ‘round when they felt like it, having a look, and popping off again. But was that not the case? Were they _really_ here—all the time?

Were they amid people _all the time_?

“Maybe they’re pretending to be Muggles?” Malfoy suggested, echoing Harry’s thoughts. He sounded as if the idea horrified him as much as it did Harry.

“We’d surely notice, right?” Harry’s voice came out an octave higher than normal. “Or Muggles would, anyway, since they apparently like them better.”

“If they haven’t got magic,” said Millicent, “then how the fuck would they look like us?” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think they’re pretending to be people—not in that sense anyway. I think they’re studying us to _learn_ to be people so their offspring can fit in here.”

Malfoy shrugged, his shoulders scraping the detritus of the forest floor. They still hadn’t moved from their positions, too scared to draw attention to themselves. The ship didn’t have any visible windows, but the aliens had to be able to see out somehow.

The ship moved slowly out of sight, and then they were alone again. Or as alone as anyone would ever be in this world created and monitored by extraterrestrials. When it was gone, Malfoy jumped up, dusting himself off and pulling Harry up, too.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, shuddering. “Stupidly, I’d feel a lot better with a roof over our heads.”

Malfoy and Millicent nodded, thankfully not mentioning that the aliens had found Harry inside a warded castle.

But maybe Hogwarts had attracted them—with all the magic—and they’d be safer out here in the middle of nowhere. But if that were the case, how had magical people managed to hide from them for so long? Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and Diagon Alley radiated magic, and those were just the major sites in Britain.

Malfoy unzipped the tent, stepped in. Harry and Millicent followed him and added a dozen warding and security spells to the tent. Then, for good measure, he added the hiding ward Hermione had used during their year on the run.

Millicent strapped the alien into the single bunk by itself on the other side of the tent, and Harry and Malfoy added a dozen more warding, _Stupefying_ , and incarcerating spells on top of hers. She crawled up the ladder above Malfoy’s bunk without a word, buried herself beneath the blankets.

Malfoy crawled into his bunk, slid to the side, pointedly saying nothing. Harry didn’t even bother to ask. Harry slid into bed beside Malfoy, slipped his wand under the pillow.

“Night, Mill,” Malfoy said. “Tomorrow we’ll figure this out.”

She replied after a long moment. “I know. Goodnight.”

“ _Nox_ ,” Harry whispered, curling around Malfoy’s body.

The lights went out, and they pretended to sleep. His ear was still ringing.

*


	20. Chapter 20

Draco woke with a start in an unfamiliar place. Next to him, someone grumbled and shifted, and Draco forced his heart to slow down. It was just Potter. They were in a tent. In Cornwall. He grimaced; he’d been having the worst dream.

He extracted himself as carefully as possible, but Potter whined again, his fingers sleepily clutching at Draco’s t-shirt.

“Potter,” Draco hissed. “Potter, get off me.”

Potter cracked one sleepy, green eye open and Draco immediately regretted his whole life. Why had he done that? He should’ve just let Potter sleep instead of forcing him to wake up and look at Draco with those unnatural eyes when Draco was really quite close to imploding like a poorly done Vanish.

He cleared his throat. “We need to get to work.”

Potter blinked, looked around the tent, grimaced. He heaved himself into a sitting position, using Draco’s chest for leverage, which was rude, and yawned. Even his yawning looked peeved.

“You were so warm,” Potter said. “I thought for a minute we were just a couple of normal blokes waking up in my bed after a bit of good sex. But then I remembered we’re in a tent amid a crumbling world, targeted by our extraterrestrial Creators for extermination, and we’ll lose our magic soon.”

“We didn’t even get a fuck out of it,” Draco said, trying for levity.

“Christ and Merlin,” came an annoyed voice above them. “Listening to you two is the true sacrifice in this whole thing. Give up my magic, sure, but for fuck’s sake, must I really listen to you putting your dicks down one another’s throats the whole time?”

Potter snorted. “We hadn’t got to that part yet, Millicent.” He paused, added, “Well, today anyway.”

Draco blushed, unable to help it. They were a hot mess. There was no way a real relationship could come of this, but the small, child-like piece of Draco that he’d never let go of could still blindly hope for something different. He sat up, brushed his hair back from his face. They needed breakfast, and then to get started on this monumental problem.

Potter was already digging around in the bag the house-elf had given him, muttering something about, ‘Much better than what we ate last time.’ He pulled out three breakfast sandwiches and an expanding canteen of steaming, fresh coffee.

Millicent hopped down from the top bunk, snatched up the sandwich. She pulled the bread off and Summoned two sticks of beef jerky from the bag, apparently already regretting her moment of weakness with the chips last night.

“Do you think today’s news coverage will be better or worse?” asked Potter, biting down into his sandwich while holding Draco’s out to him.

Draco pursed his lips as he took the sandwich. “The eternal optimist in me really hopes for better.”

“What eternal optimist?” asked Millicent, which was a fair point.

Draco ignored her, started in on his own sandwich. It was bacon, cheese, and egg on croissant, which he couldn’t complain about. The coffee was just as good as at Hogwarts, too, and Draco allowed himself a nice little daydream wondering if this situation could actually _not_ turn out all bad, after all. Millicent’s raised eyebrow across the table reminded him that it would not, of course, turn out _good_.

If nothing else, he was a already convicted Death Eater. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get the Kiss when the ICW caught up to them. Draco shook himself—quite literally, one of those strange little full-body shudders one got for seemingly no reason at all. Potter was still munching on his own sandwich, and he Summoned his laptop from his bunk to the small table and opened the screen. Draco pulled his chair around to see.

Potter tapped at the keys with one hand, feeding himself with the other. Crumbs fell on the letters, but he didn’t seem to mind, which was just like a Gryffindor.

Draco watched the how fast letters form on the screen, impressed despite himself. He was quite slow himself. He supposed after this, all his fellow pure-bloods would be getting at least some degree of exposure to crafty Muggle devices like laptops. He wished he had his own; catching up on his mother’s finance blog would’ve been a nice reprieve for his brain…although he had no idea how to use it for anything else.

Potter typed ‘BBC’ in the search box and tapped a little square at the base of the laptop. The screen changed and Potter clicked on one of the items at the top of the list, which changed colour and changed the screen yet again.

The screen resolved slower than most magic, which seemed to annoy Potter, but when it was finished, it looked very much like a front page of a newspaper, complete with dramatic photograph and large-print headline. Potter inhaled sharply and choked, though Draco didn’t see anything alarming on the screen. Draco clapped him on the back a few times, but he didn’t stop choking, so Draco had to use an oesophagus-clearing spell on him. He’d not expected to ever need that spell again after Scorpius turned six.

“What is it?” Draco asked when Potter had settled down, his face slowly returning to its normal colour.

“My aunt,” Potter said, gesturing at the screen. “That’s my Aunt Petunia!”

Draco peered at the woman there. She wasn’t particularly attractive, but she wasn’t unattractive, either. Tall, thin, blonde, plain. She did have a rather nice set of blue-green eyes, but Draco could see how those would easily be forgotten by the frown lines arcing around her mouth. She was standing on the doorstep of a white house with a very nicely manicured front garden, apparently caught mid-word, so that her mouth was open and she looked stern. Muggle photography was so strange—and rude! To leave a woman’s mouth open like that for all eternity!

“Is she famous, too?”

Potter snorted, but thankfully had finished his sandwich by now, and didn’t choke again. “Not even close.”

The headline read:

_Solihull woman exposed as anti-alien forum commenter “purplehybrids” and mother of ‘Abducted Man,’ begs UK to side with magicals_

“Oh good, she’s on our side. She’s your Muggle aunt?”

“Yeah,” Potter said, voice strangely soft. “Dudley’s mum.”

“Huh ,” Draco said, taking a sip from his coffee canteen. “I suppose I see the resemblance. But she’s so skinny—decent enough face, I suppose.”

Potter gave him an annoyed look, which Draco thought completely unnecessary. It wasn’t like he was shitting on his Muggle family or anything.

“I just…I don’t get it. She’s always hated magic. And people with magic. She _hated_ me, when I was growing up. This is—really out of character.”

“She hated _magic_?” Draco repeated, just to be sure. “Who could hate magic?’

“People who don’t have it?” Harry offered, eyebrows raised. “Potentially all the people we just exposed it to?”

“Oh, right,” Draco said, suddenly feeling cold.

He’d somehow forgotten, for the briefest of moments, how dangerous what they’d just done was. Maybe it was the act of being here with Potter, of all people. Potter, who he’d shared a bed and his own body with for weeks now. Potter, who was making sure his son stayed safe via a probably illegally bred Demiguise-Spaniel mutt.

“Seems logical to me,” said Millicent, throwing back half a cup of coffee in one swig and coming to read over their shoulders. “Her son’s just been abducted by aliens. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Slytherin 101, duh.”

They read the article together. With each quote from his Muggle aunt, Potter shook his head wondrously, and Draco wondered just how serious he’d been about the “hate” part. Had she just thought Potter annoying, like anyone sane would’ve done at that age? Or had she really, truly hated a child version of Potter?

“I really wish I could talk to the Queen,” Potter said, once they reached the end of the article. “Or Hermione. _Anyone_. We’ve got to figure out this spell and get Dud back.”

“Well, I don’t have a mobile,” Millicent said. Neither did Draco or Potter.

“We should start with the Queen,” said Draco. “Find out what’s going on.”

“How,” Potter said, flatly.

“Severus,” said Draco. “I brought his new portrait, from your rooms.”

“Oh, good,” said Potter, who’d obviously been too distracted to notice Draco pulling a very large oil painting off his wall. “Where?”

Draco stood, stretched the early kinks out of his neck—honestly how did Muggles look at these screens for so long? When they’d been in the library, there had been dozens who’d not looked up from their laptop screens once.

He padded over to his rucksack and dug around until his fingers closed over the frame. Draco stood and tugged; even shrunken, it took several pulls to get it all the way out, and when he did, he was annoyed to find a few scrapes in the frame’s gold leaf.

Severus wasn’t in the frame currently, but Draco only had to call him and he’d hear it. He did so, propping the frame up against one of the spare chairs. One of Potter’s poorly painted Scotties rolled in the grass, its bottom wiggling back and forth. Severus entered the frame, took one look at the dog, and pressed his lips together.

“You lived,” he observed, unsurprised. “You returned to Hogwarts?”

“Briefly,” Potter said. “Before we realised how stupid that was. McGonagall told us to make ourselves scarce. Have you been to your portrait in her office?”

“She said she hadn’t seen you,” said Severus. “Self- _Obliviate_?”

Draco nodded.

“Wise,” said Severus. He conjured a patio chair in the painting and sat down. “Have you been able to see any of the Muggles’ reactions?”

“Aunt Petunia,” Potter said, hoarsely, and Severus’s eyes immediately snapped to him. “She’s supporting us.”

Severus leant back, disbelieving, and Draco was immediately curious of how he knew Potter’s aunt. “You can’t be serious.”

In response, Potter held the laptop screen up for Severus to see and added, “Do you think it’ll help?”

“Loathe as I am to be grateful for anything that woman does, it certainly can’t hurt, Potter.” He narrowed his eyes, added, “Wildly out of character, however.”

“That’s what Potter said,” added Draco, who was already bored with this conversation. “But I really think we ought to focus on actionable things. Any ideas from the Queen on how we can get Dudley back? Or connect with any of the Muggles who’ve come back from being abducted?”

Severus shook his head. “The ICW has been crawling the island looking for you three. They can’t touch the Queen or any Atlanteans without it being an act of war, since Atlantis never signed the Statute agreement, but they are certainly making life annoying for her…and keeping civilian contact from reaching her, though Muggle diplomats have been dispatched from most countries—the city is teeming with them. Some have brought sightings of ships with them—strange things as well. Crop circles and livestock mutilations. A number of Muggles have lost hours of time, as if _Obliviated_. Things are progressing quite fast.”

“Good,” said Potter. “That means people will be more willing to act.”

Severus eyed him. “Yes, but it also means your time is limited. With this extra activity, she has very little time to assist. This will be left to you to solve.”

Draco felt himself go cold. “You can’t be serious.”

“Perfectly, I’m sorry to say.”

“We can’t do this. You expect _me, Potter, and Millicent_ to save the world?”

Severus smirked. “Draco, you are an expert in complex ancient magic. With Millicent’s determination and Potter’s proven record, how could you fail?”

Well Draco didn’t like that at all. But he didn’t have much say in it. It was too late for second thoughts now.

*

“Okay,” said Millicent. “We need two things. We need Muggle volunteers and we need to get Dudley home. The ICW’s on our arses, but I think we can use that to our advantage. We might get a sympathy vote from the Muggles who saw the ICW come after us.”

“Excellent,” said Malfoy, who had apparently pushed his own issues aside for some good, old-fashioned Slytherin scheming. He made a few ticks on a list, frowned. “All of these require communicating without getting caught.”

Harry tapped his wand to the WiFi search on his screen, waited for the spinner to stop. A list of available networks popped up and he sighed in relief. They’d moved further into the forest after talking to Snape, and he wasn’t sure how far Hermione’s magic-to-WiFi spell could range. Harry chose the network at the top (“Cornish-Chicks”) and tapped again to sneak in without a password.

He was blown away by the online commentary surrounding magic and aliens; he couldn’t stop reading. Every other second, there was a new opinion shouted into the world, and he had some vague notions of trying to figure out how screwed they were based on public opinion.

“There’s got to be a way to talk to lots of Muggles on the internet,” Malfoy said. “My mother has a blog and talks at several dozen that way. Should we start some blogs? Ten or twelve? That won’t be nearly enough, but maybe word-of-mouth will help.”

“Isn’t there instant messages, too?” said Millicent. “I’ve seen Dudley use instant messages to talk to mates from school.”

Just then, Harry’s computer pinged. In the top left corner there was a banner notification:

 _New mail from Hermione Granger_  
Re: Harry?  
  
Harry blinked several times, his heart thrilling. He was an idiot. An absolute fucking _idiot_.

Here they were looking for abstract ways to contact abstract Muggles, and Hermione had _email_.

And she’d forced him to create an account years ago ‘just in case’.

Harry clicked the banner thirty times, trying to force it to open quicker, but his laptop model was a few years old and not as fast as the newer ones. Painfully slowly, his Mail application opened to Hermione’s email. Beyond hers, there were 3,412 unread ones from people asking him to wire them money. He always ignored those, amazed by the sheer gall some people had to ask strangers for large sums of money, but he got the same sort in his owl post, so he reckoned it was a universal problem.

> _Harry_ , Hermione’s email read.
> 
> _Are you out of your bloody mind?? Have you completely and utterly lost not only your plot but the plot of every Stephen King, R. L. Stine, Enid Blyton, Isaac Asimov, Nora Roberts, and John Grisholm novel ever written? And even those wretched and unfortunately numerous Chambrs Cosworth erotic romances!_
> 
> _I saw the press conference replay this morning. I’m at my parents’ house, with Ron and the kids, hiding from the mobs, and it’s all they’re talking about on BBC…and the other news channels, too, but my parents don’t watch those. Diagon Alley is in an uproar, as you may well imagine. The Ministry, the Daily Prophet, Gringotts. Gringotts especially—exchange rates are through the roof and the Galleon’s oscillating wildly._
> 
> _Harry, I am at a loss for words. What in Minerva McGonagall’s name made you think it was a good idea to break the Statute of Secrecy like that with absolutely no planning or preparation in place to deal with this inevitable fallout?_
> 
> _Because there IS FALLOUT. There is a great DEAL of fallout. Arthur’s tanking retirement account is the LEAST of which! You had better have had a good reason for this. Email me back ASAP. Let me know you’re alive and of sound mind, please!!_
> 
> _Or better yet, get a burner mobile and CALL ME!!!!!! My number’s still 07700 900407._
> 
> _Love,  
>  Hermione_
> 
> _PS. Your aunt’s giving an interview to Al Jazeera at 3pm. Are you collaborating?!? What does she know??_
> 
> _PPS. FUCKING SHIT, WAS THAT A REAL ALIEN?!?  
>  _

“Shit,” Harry said.

Malfoy and Millicent immediately came ‘round to read over his shoulder, and he let them.

“Ah, fuck,” Millicent murmured. “I hope Dad diversified our portfolio like he was talking about.”

“Muggle stocks?” asked Malfoy, while Harry looked on in amazement that their portfolios were top concern.

She nodded, said, “Then again, if the exchange rate’s good now, maybe he’ll want to bring some Muggle profits back over. Could be good for us.”

“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Have you forgotten that we are all going to lose our magic and possibly our lives in the very near future?”

“No, of course not, Potter,” Malfoy said, but Harry could tell it was placatingly done. “Do you think it’s safe to contact Granger?”

“I dunno,” Harry said. “Maybe. She could probably help.”

He checked his watch. It was gone two, and they hadn’t even eaten lunch yet. They’d been too busy trying to figure out a plan for Dudley…and getting nowhere.

“I want to watch that interview,” said Harry.

“With Dudley’s mother?” Millicent asked, uncommonly interested. “Can we watch it on your lap calculator?”

“Computer, not calculator. Yeah, we can.” He frowned at his WiFi, which only had two bars. “Though the video probably won’t come in very well. We should go into town, watch it on a telly and try to call Hermione from a telephone box.”

“You think she’ll talk about Dudley?” asked Millicent. “Do Muggle news shows take callers? Maybe someone will Floo in and tell her how to get him home!”

“Dudley’s her pride and joy,” Harry said, feeling suddenly and unaccountably very sad for his aunt. “She’ll definitely talk about him.”

Millicent nodded. “Then we’ve got to risk it. We need to see this interview.”

“We can use disguises,” said Harry. “Can either of you do a decent Glamour?”

Millicent snorted. “Draco can Glamour you into anything you like.”

“Oh fuck off, Mill, that was _one time_ and we were _fourteen_.”

She gave him an amused side-eye. “I bet you’d probably think it’s a good idea now, too.”

“I would—” Malfoy stopped abruptly. “Actually, yes, it would be a great idea. They’re looking for two men and a woman, so Potter, you and I will Glamour into women and Millicent will—”

“No, thank you,” she said, but it came out more like, ‘Not on your fucking life.’ “I’m not carrying a dick around just to meet your numbers. You can Glamour me into a different woman, and you and Potter can fight over the other one.”

“That would make more sense,” Malfoy allowed. “Fine, Potter, you can be the second woman.”

“Of course it’d be me,” Harry muttered.

“Enjoy the holiday from having a nuisance dangling between your thighs, Potter,” Millicent said.

That did sound nice, actually.

“Can I be white and blonde?” Harry asked, hopefully. “With a nice figure and a pretty face, too. Basically, make me look like Hannah Abbott.”

They stared at him.

“You have a thing for our Head of Hufflepuff?” Malfoy asked, lip curled. “Really? Were you going to tell me?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “No, obviously I have a thing for you…and blondes.” He tried for a saucy wink but rather suspected it came out like he had dirt in his eye. “I just wanna see how the other half lives.”

“Fine, whatever, Potter,” said Malfoy, and swirled his wand in a complicated pattern up and down Harry’s body.

Harry conjured a mirror, checked out his face and hair. Not bad, not bad at all. Malfoy had changed his clothes into athletic leggings, an oversized jumper, and a pair of sheepskin boots. It _was_ rather nice not having his cock and bollocks dangling down—rather airy, actually. He turned around and peered over his shoulder.

“Maybe a bit more in the bum?”

“Potter, this is a reconnaissance mission which our entire world hinges on, not a hen party!” Malfoy snapped.

Harry sighed. “Fine.”

Malfoy changed Millicent’s hair to ginger, took away her muscly arms and arse, but left them soft and rounded. He gave her a pointed nose and a small mouth, with loads of freckles everywhere. She got leggings and sheepskin boots, too, but with a crushed velvet dress overtop. He must’ve lost inspiration by the time he did himself, because Malfoy ended up roughly the same size and silhouette, but with tan skin, thick black hair, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. He did not get sheepskin boots.

Then, they packed up the tent again and Apparated to the nearest decently sized town, where the population would be high enough that a group of unknown thirty-somethings wouldn’t be remarked upon. Falmouth in Cornwall had a magical population they wanted to avoid, so they went to Cardiff instead.

They found a cafe with a telly on. Harry pushed the door open and was greeted by a burst of warm, gas-heated air. He smiled from the pure nostalgia of it; it’d been so long since he’d felt air heated by anything other than Warming Charms, which could easily feel clammy if not well-cast (like his).

The lad behind the counter smiled at them as they came in; Harry ordered them three cappuccinos to give them something warm to sip on, a reason to sit and watch television for awhile.

There was a middle-aged man already in the cafe when they came in; his eyes swept up and down Harry’s female-looking body before doing the same to Millicent’s. Then he gave himself a little smile and turned back to his book and tea. Harry would’ve punched him if he weren’t trying to stay away from law enforcement.

Millicent grabbed them a table with a good view of the telly, made a show of pulling out her notebook and—amazingly—a biro, and Harry wondered just how long she and Dudley had been dating. He’d thought only a few months, but then she kept surprising him with a profound and unexpected knowledge of some part of Muggle life.

Malfoy, on the other hand, sat stiffly in the booth, looking as if he weren’t sure whether or not it was okay to speak directly to the people on television or not. It was a reasonable confusion, given the only other time Harry knew Malfoy had watched telly, it had been with Dudley, Millicent, Ginny, and Harry screaming at the screen.

“Hey, mate,” Harry said to the barista as he was handing over a few pounds for their drinks. “Mind if we watch that interview on Al Jazeera? Sounds like it’s going to be mad.”

“Aliens, yeah?” said the barista. He shook his head. “Still can’t believe it. Sure, I’ll change it over for you.”

“Cheers,” Harry said, smiling.

He took their drinks back to the table and pulled a chair around to the other side of the table so he could see. It scraped on the floor and the creeper bloke gave him a superior, passive-aggressive look. Harry returned it with a withering look of his own, and proceeded to ignore him.

“Thanks, Potter,” Millicent said, voice low.

They didn’t have to wait long before the interview began. Harry found himself leaning forward, his eyes raking over his aunt’s pale face, looking for some sign that she was—that something was _different_. She had to know she’d be labeled a nutter doing this interview, and that was the exact opposite of what Petunia Dursley wanted. He was half afraid the _Obliviates_ really had addled her brain.

The reporter had already laid out the details and was jumping right into questions.

“Mrs Dursley, you’re also known online by the username ‘purplehybrids,’ is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

Even Petunia’s voice was different—lower and stronger, somehow, with none of the breaks it’d had from all the screaming she did at Harry.

“And you’ve got quite a following on reddit—over twenty-thousand users list you as a friend and subscribe to your posts, mostly in the /r/anti-alien, /r/ufos, and /r/ancientaliens subreddits, though you’re also a frequent poster in the /r/britishgardens forum. Tell me about how you came to be such a well-respected voice in these communities.”

“I simply shared my story,” said Petunia. “In recent months, I’ve been visited a number of times. Beings—aliens—would show up in my back garden, even in my bedroom. I took pictures, videos, and audio recordings with my mobile and shared them. Others responded saying they’d seen the same beings, or been taken by them. I was careful to document everything as best as I could, so that others could test it for credibility.”

Millicent inhaled sharply.

“Other people were taken by these beings—these ‘aliens’—and returned home?”

Petunia was silent for a moment, her throat working. “Yes.”

“And—I know this must be a difficult subject for you, but you have also been revealed as the mother of the man, Dudley Dursley, who was allegedly abducted from his girlfriend’s home two days ago.”

Another heavy pause. “Yes.”

This time, Petunia’s voice wavered on the word.

“Do you truly believe he has been taken by extraterrestrials, Mrs Dursley?”

Petunia’s face morphed with anger. “Yes,” she said. “I know he was.”

“How do you know?”

“Each time the…the aliens came to my house, they came after he’d been by. They were looking for him. When I found one in the house, it was in his old room, the one he still sleeps in when he visits. They were never interested in _me_.”

The reporter’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, but she nodded. “You believe the aliens have malicious intent, is that correct?”

“They took my son, didn’t they? And thousands of others, to boot.”

“Yes, but you’ve said you believe they’re here to destroy humankind. You said that before the momentous press conference on Atlantis yesterday evening. How did you come by this information?”

Petunia looked, for the first time, uncomfortable with the question. Not just angry or upset, but as if she didn’t want to answer at all. She swallowed, stared down at her hands, seemed to gather herself. When she looked back up, she had a determined look on her face that made Harry’s heart ache with sudden memory—a picture of the original Order of the Phoenix, of his mother.

“When I was younger, a spell was cast on me—“

“A _magic_ spell?” the reporter asked.

Petunia pursed her lips. “Yes. It…was not a nice spell, not cast by a nice person. It affected my brain and memories. Some weeks ago, somehow, that spell was…reversed. A number of consequences came from that, not least of which was that I started getting visions. One of those visions was—I saw Dudley being taken before it happened. Another was streets full of bodies…aliens everywhere.”

The reporter swallowed. This, it seemed, had affected even her.

“Have you had any other visions?”

“I’ve seen dozens of futures,” Petunia said. “Most of them terrible. The only good ones happen when we come together and eject the aliens from the planet. We need the help of magical people for that.”

“How do we come together?” asked the reporter. “We have civil wars worldwide, terrorism, dictatorships—here in London, we can’t even agree which party we want in Parliament.”

Petunia smiled tightly. “It does seem an insurmountable task.”

“Do you believe in magic? Did what we saw from Atlantis yesterday make you a believer?”

“I have believed in magic since I was ten,” Petunia said. “When my sister first changed a flower into a butterfly.”

“I’m sorry—was your sister one of the people who claimed, yesterday, to have their own secret, magical community?”

“She became one, yes.”

“Where is your sister now?”

“Dead,” Petunia said, shortly.

“I’m sorry,” the reporter said, automatically. “We were told yesterday, by Mr Malfoy, that this ability to do magic can run in families. Does your son have the ability?”

“No.”

“Does anyone else besides your sister?”

Petunia hesitated. Harry’s heart hammered in his throat.

“Yes,” she said after a long moment. “My nephew.”

“Who is your nephew?”

Petunia’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “I don’t think it’s my place to expose him at a time so fraught.” Then, she looked right at the camera and said, “I would hope he has the opportunity to do something good, without my undoubtedly shredded reputation after this interview hindering him.”

Harry gasped. She knew he was watching.

The reporter cocked her head. “You believe your reputation will be ruined after today?”

Petunia laughed. “Of course it will be.” She gestured at her body. “I look like a basket case coming onto telly talking about aliens and magic.”

“I’m sorry, but if you believe that, then why did you agree to our interview, Mrs Dursley?”

“Because I have to,” she said. “My visions. I have to stand up first so others can feel safe enough to do it, too. I have to find a way to get my son home.”

“What would you like to say to those viewers today?”

Petunia thought for a moment. “Trust magical people. And remember the shibboleth.”

The reporter closed out the interview and signed off. Al Jazeera switched to a huge sand circle that had appeared in Iraq early that morning. The barista aimed the remote at the telly and lowered the volume.

The barista glanced at Harry with a little quirked smile and said, “You get the feeling you’re a complete idiot for believing her and a complete idiot if you don’t?”

Harry bit his lip and both the creepy man and the barista followed the movement. “I believe her.”

The barista laughed, shook his head. “So do I.”

Another customer came in, and he turned to help him. Harry moved his chair around to face Millicent and Malfoy.

“The fuck is the shibboleth?” asked Harry.

“No idea,” said Malfoy.

Millicent rolled her eyes. “Leave it to the Jewish girl, of course. It’s like a cultural password. It comes from Hebrew scripture. We killed some arseholes we’d been at war with because they couldn’t pronounce the word the right way and we knew, therefore, they weren’t one of us.”

“So what does that have to do with aliens?” asked Malfoy.

Harry, suddenly, remembered the alien trying to cross its leg, blinking even though it didn’t need to. “She was saying we’re all the same, we’ve got the same purpose. But the aliens don’t. She was saying to stick with our own kind: Muggles and magicals together against the aliens. It’s vaguely racist—which is very much my Aunt Petunia—but I think I get what she means.”

“That’s pretty brilliant, actually,” said Malfoy.

Millicent, however, was staring directly at him. “We need to go see your aunt, Potter.”

*


	21. Chapter 21

There were press outside Petunia’s house in Solihull, but not as many as Harry would’ve expected. Once again in their Malfoy-provided Glamours, they cased the place posing as gawkers before retreating to a hidden alley. The alien was floating, Disillusioned and tethered, behind Millicent.

This was surely a human rights violation somewhere.

“We can’t walk straight up to the door,” said Malfoy.

“Why not?” asked Millicent. “It’s not like she’s under arrest. We could be friends, family.”

“Won’t they figure us out?” asked Malfoy. “The ICW’s looking for three people. We’re three people.”

“I’ve been inside once,” Harry said, reluctantly. “It’s really rude, but I think I can Apparate us in without landing in the middle of the china cabinet.”

That being said, Apparating into his aunt’s sitting room unannounced was the last thing he wanted to do—right behind ‘going to Petunia’s house in general.’

Millicent gave them both a narrowed look, hindered by her lovely ginger eyelashes. “You’re both being ridiculous. I’ll Disillusion the two of you and walk up alone. We are not Apparating into my future mother-in-law’s home unannounced.”

Malfoy blinked. Harry blinked several times more. Her future—? Were she and Dudley—? His brain short-circuited. He shook his head, long blonde hair flying around his face.

“Okay.” That’s all he could come up with.

Really, what else was there to say after a pronouncement like that?

Millicent nodded once. “Good. Draco, come here. Let me tap you.”

Malfoy allowed himself to be Disillusioned, though he grimaced as the invisibility dripped over his hair and body like a cracked egg. Millicent tapped her wand to Harry’s head without bothering to ask and Harry shuddered at the sensation.

“All right, let’s go.”

She took off for Petunia’s house, Harry and Malfoy following invisibly behind. The house was pretty—a small white and blue cottage with pink and coral ranunculus everywhere. Sunflowers popped up from among them.

The cobbled pathway leading to the front door was crowded with the press and other gawkers, but Millicent got through with a stern glare while Harry led Malfoy around the crowd through the neighbour’s drive, taking care to step only on the pavers that lined the flower beds, so their footprints wouldn’t show.

The front steps were lined with tiny pots of succulents and there was a Christmas wreath on the door. Harry eyed all of this with confusion. Wasn’t it…a bit cold for all these flowers? Who the hell had Petunia sold her soul to to get blooms this late in the season?

He didn’t have time to ponder this further; Millicent rapped sharply on the door.

A moment went by, the curtain twitched by the door.

“I’m not doing another interview,” Petunia called, peeking through.

Millicent leant over so Petunia could see her through the window, then dropped the Glamour over only her face. “I’m not here for an interview. I’m here about Dudley.”

Petunia’s eyes widened. She dropped the curtain, and a moment later the door cracked open. “You were with him when he was—when they took him.”

Millicent nodded once. “I’ve got your nephew here with me, as well as Draco Malfoy who was also at the press conference, too. Will you let us in?”

Petunia hesitated for only a moment. She opened the door fully. Behind them, cameras flashed. Petunia scowled.

“Come in, quickly, quickly,” she hissed.

Harry went in first, pulling Malfoy with him, and Millicent followed with the alien. Petunia fairly slammed the door behind them. She let out a huge sigh.

“I knew it would be bad,” Petunia said. “But knowing it and living it are two different things. Tea?”

Harry released his Disillusionment and Glamour in one go, and Petunia’s eyes flicked to him immediately, looked him up and down, taking in the changes since they’d last seen one another. It had been nearly eight years now.

Malfoy dropped his Glamour and Disillusionment and she hardly batted an eye, still staring at Harry.

“Hi, Aunt Petunia,” he said, cautiously.

Suddenly, she seemed to deflate. Her shoulders sagged and her hands pressed nervously at the kitchen apron she had around her waist. For a moment, he thought she’d—bizarrely—hug him. But the moment passed and she didn’t.

“Hello, Harry.”

She turned away, making for the kitchen. “I’ll just put the kettle on. Have a seat…away from the windows!”

The windows themselves were all covered tightly by heavy curtains that didn’t particularly suit the room. They weren’t the same ones she’d had when he’d come for dinner that one time. She’d almost certainly put them up just to keep the cameras from catching her unawares.

Harry sat on the sofa and Malfoy took the seat next to him, leaving Millicent to prowl agitatedly around the room with the invisible alien propped up against the fireplace.

The style was similar to the decor Petunia had used in Little Whinging—florally and muted and always a bit old beyond her years—but not nearly as dreary as it had been there. She had live potted plants scattered throughout, their green leaves and flowers sprawling. There was a woven rug with blue bonnets on the floor that Harry knew was sold at Magic Loom in Hogsmeade. And the pictures of Dudley as a child had mostly been replaced with pictures of Dudley as a young man. There were no pictures of Vernon.

Petunia returned from the kitchen with a tray of tea and biscuits. She set it on the coffee table, pouring them each a cup. She made Millicent’s and Malfoy’s according to their preferences, and then turned to Harry, looking pained.

“How do you take your tea, Harry?”

Out of Petunia’s line of sight, Millicent raised her eyebrows, and Harry felt that deep and penetrating shame he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. His own aunt, whom he’d grown up living with, didn’t know how he took his tea. Because she’d certainly never made him a cup before.

He desperately wanted a cup full of sugar at the moment, but it felt rude—it felt insensitive to Dudley to drink sugary tea when Dudley was always on him about eating healthy. Dudley wasn’t here to give him an exasperated look. He was up in some rotten spaceship, maybe being exper—

 _No_. Harry couldn’t even think it.

“Just milk, please.”

Petunia smiled tightly, added a dollop of milk, and passed it over. Then they all four sat there, sipping at their tea while the murmur of the press droned on outside.

“You’ve a lovely garden, Mrs Dursley,” Malfoy said after a moment. “Surprisingly lush, given it’s December.”

Petunia pursed her lips. “Thank you. I keep telling my neighbours that it’s just dedication and good fertiliser. They don’t ever believe me, but it’s not like I...like I _did_ anything to it.”

Harry, Millicent, and Malfoy shared an uncomfortable look. Harry felt jostled and unsteady. There was something—something _not right_ with Petunia’s flowerbeds. Something unMuggle.

Malfoy sipped his tea. “I’ve never seen sunflowers in full bloom at nine degrees. You must have a terribly green thumb.”

Petunia shrugged, looking miserable. Her fingers curled around the china like thin, pale vines looking for purchase and not finding any. Millicent gave Harry a pointed look and he grimaced. It was not easy trying to make conversation with his aunt, but they were here for a purpose.

“Aunt Petunia,” Harry said, clearing his throat.

She looked up at him, her eyes strangely wide and vulnerable. “Yes?”

“You said you’ve been having…visions. Did those visions tell you how to get Dudley back? Or has anyone contacted you? Anyone who’s been abducted before? We don’t know what to do,” he finished, feeling his throat constrict.

Fuck, how had he grown so fucking _attached_ to Dudley?

Petunia’s eyes watered. She shook her head. “Everyone who’s contacted me about their own abductions says they don’t know how they got home. The aliens just…brought them back. But—but there’s so many people who just _haven’t come home_. And…and I’m afraid that…that Dudley’s one of _those_ because it’s been _two days_ and everyone who was abducted and returned was only gone for a few _hours_ , and—“

She broke off, bursting into tears. Millicent reached over and gently took Petunia’s teacup from her hands, setting it on the table.

“Did they say anything at all about their experiences—?” Harry asked. “Any clues we could use?’

Petunia shook her head, still sobbing.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Everyone jumped, startled by the sound. Even Petunia. She wiped furiously at her eyes, put on a false smile.

“Excuse me, one moment. It could be the detective. They’re looking into Dudley’s disappearance. Maybe…maybe he just…”

She trailed off again, the hope she was forcing onto herself so brittle and obvious. They all knew there was nothing a detective could do for Dudley.

“Hello?” Petunia said, her voice forced calm and polite.

There was a pause; the three of them sat in uncomfortable silence. Harry’s eyes kept drifting to the corner where the alien sat, unnoticed and Disillusioned. Maybe they could do a hostage trade.

Then, Petunia screamed. Harry jumped up, managed to catch her before she slumped to the ground.

“Fuck! Someone _Ennervate_ her!”

He grabbed the phone from her hands and put it to his ear. “Who the fuck is this?” he growled.

“Harry?”

Harry’s heart skipped about twelve beats. “Dudley.”

Millicent jumped up, practically vaulted over the sofa to snatch the phone from him. They pressed it between their heads, both trying to listen, as Malfoy saw to Petunia.

“Dudley?” Millicent said, her voice tremulous.

“Milly!” Dudley said, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Oh god, Millicent! You’re at my mother’s? I had no idea how to contact you. Oh god, you’re okay! I was so worried they got you, too!”

“No, I caught one,” Millicent said, crying again. “I’ve got him here with me. I was going to try to ransom him if all else failed.”

“That’s my girl,” Dudley said.

“Where are you?” Harry demanded. “We’ll come get you. Tell us how to find you.”

“I’m in Barcelona,” said Dudley. “Just got here about twenty minutes ago—landed at some ruins.”

“Landed—?” said Millicent, practically screaming in his ear. It was going to start ringing again. “The spaceship—?”

Malfoy managed to get Petunia _Ennervated_ and she immediately scrambled for the phone, and then all three of them had their heads pressed close together, desperate for Dudley’s voice.

“Dudley!”

“Mum! Are you okay? You screamed!”

“She fainted,” Harry said.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” said Petunia. “Where are you?”

“Spain,” Dudley said. “I was just saying I got back to Earth about twenty minutes ago.”

“Did they release you?” asked Petunia.

“No.” Dudley’s voice was cold. “They didn’t intend to release me at all. They were collecting us, the human ‘specimens’ they thought were ideal for breeding. A lot of forgotten Olympians here, some triathletes…couple of Buddhist monks and pilates instructors. I was pretty doped up for a while, but I guess maybe the drugs ran through my system pretty quick because I kept coming out of it and they always seemed surprised. The last time, I knew I had to get to my Portkey—”

“The Portkey!” Harry said, a smile spreading across his face. “You used Malfoy’s Portkey?!”

“He got home with a Portkey?” Malfoy, who was not listening in, demanded. “How far away were they keeping him? I didn’t know Portkeys worked outside of the atmosphere!”

“Where was the ship you were in?” Harry asked.

“No idea, didn’t have windows,” Dudley said. “Anyway—we’re here and we’re going to the Embassy to try and get home.”

“You said ‘we’…” Harry said.

“Oh! Right! Yeah, I brought about twenty people back with me. The ones who would come, anyway. Some of them were already…they were already gone. Brainwashed or Stockholm Syndrome or just…just too scared to try to leave.”

All three of them were silent. The absolute horror that information instilled in him…Harry could barely imagine it. Petunia slumped against him and Millicent and for a moment, Harry was afraid she was going to faint again.

“Dudley,” Petunia said, softly. “Dudley, don’t go to the Embassy. I’ll wire you money for a flight home.”

“He’s a missing person now,” Harry said. “You said you had a detective looking for him. He’ll be stopped immediately at airport security.”

Petunia shook her head. “I’m afraid of what will happen if he goes to the Embassy. The government still hasn’t acknowledged extraterrestrial presence on our planet, despite all the sightings. They still haven’t acknowledged magic, either. What if they quietly take him off to MI6 to question him or...or _something_ , and never let him go?”

Harry thought that was an unfortunately valid possibility. He swallowed. “What can we do then?”

“Go to the press,” said Millicent.

“Milly,” Dudley said with a laugh, “They’ll think I’m a nutter.”

“No more a nutter than I,” Petunia said crisply. “Or Millicent, Draco, and Harry.”

“Draco?” said Dudley. “He’s there, too? What on earth is going on?”

“Quite a bit was going on ‘on Earth,’” said Millicent primly, “while you were up in your spaceship. Potter, Draco, and I have gone on television and performed magic for Muggles all over the world, completely breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and your mother has been exposed as a prolific reddit poster of alien encounters—she gave an interview yesterday.”

Dudley was quiet for a moment, only the sound of his elevated breathing to show he was still on the line.

“…You _what_?!”

“Check the telly,” Harry said. “I’m sure clips from both are still being shown every news cycle.”

“The point is,” Millicent added, “it’s safer for you to go make a spectacle of yourself than it is to go somewhere they can snatch you up and we’d never hear from you again. And everyone knows your name now—I showed my alien to the reporters and said they’d taken you. People will want to know if you’ve come back.”

“Jesus,” Dudley said. “I guess it’s a good thing I took some videos and pictures while I was on the spaceship. Oh, and they inserted something in my arm. Should probably take that out so they can’t find me again, but might be a good idea to leave it long enough for some people to see the evidence.”

Harry, Petunia, and Millicent’s mouths gaped.

“Dudley,” Harry said, “you are a fucking genius.”

“Well, I must be, right?” said Dudley, chuckling. “They thought I was an ideal breeding specimen, after all.”

There was a pause. All Harry could do was listen to the sound of Dudley’s breathing, reassure himself he was _really_ there, _really_ safe.

And then Dudley said, forcefully jovial, “God, I hope I don’t have some half-alien children out there somewhere.”

Millicent’s fingers clenched around Harry’s thigh. “Are you—really okay?” she asked, working her throat. “I mean, you sound okay, but are you really okay?”

Dudley was quiet long enough that Harry’s gut began to churn. How could anyone be okay after that? Dudley was always a good sport, always cheerful and full of laughs. But even he couldn’t be immune to being abducted by aliens.

“I will be, love.” His voice was so quiet, Harry wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. “I’ll be fine when I see you again. Running on adrenaline right now.”

Millicent scrunched her eyes closed. “Go to the press. I’d better see you on a Muggle telly by the end of the day. Then we’ll work on getting you home. And—Dudley, don’t go to sleep alone. Stay at a…at a hostel or something. With lots of people around. We’ll send you money.”

“I will.” Dudley cleared his throat. “Mum, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Petunia said. “Fine…overwhelmed and losing my bloody mind, but fine, darling.”

Dudley laughed. “I’m proud of you for going on telly and standing up for what you thought was important. I can’t wait to see your interview.”

She laughed hollowly. “I love you, Dudley.”

“Love you, Mum. I’m going to go now. One of the blokes here speaks Spanish…I’ll see if we can figure this thing out together. I’ll call soon.”

They said goodbye and reluctantly, Petunia hung up the telephone.

Malfoy had pulled out a dining chair and was sitting in front of them, arms crossed and frowning.

“Dudley’s okay?”

Millicent nodded. “He’s going to the press.”

“Good,” said Malfoy. “That makes everything a lot easier. Now, we just need to find Muggles to help with the spell.”

Petunia brushed down her kitchen apron. “I suppose the tea’s ruined now,” she said, sighing.

“I could warm it for you, Mrs Dursley,” said Millicent.

Harry froze, watching Petunia’s face. This could only end badly—

“That would be lovely, thank you, Millicent,” Petunia said. It sounded slightly forced, but by no means near the level of vitriol she had always saved for Harry.

“Please tell me about your plan,” Petunia said, taking a seat.

They’d moved to the kitchen to sit around the table, their re-heated cups of tea cradled in their hands. There was a sense of exhausted relief among all of them. That Dudley was not only safe, but had figured out his own escape—and used magic to do it—was startling, amazing, relieving.

Malfoy was the one to answer.

“We have reconfigured the spell the Atlanteans originally used to hide their island from the aliens to hide the entire planet from the aliens. It will, in effect, take us out of this dimension’s time and space without stopping our own progression of time. Essentially, it moves us to a brand new, alien life-free parallel universe—for a time. Everything will look the same, only the alien culture won’t exist on the new plane. The magic will run out in a few hundred to a few thousand years, bringing us back to where we are now.”

“And again vulnerable to these creatures,” Petunia surmised.

Malfoy nodded, “Yes, but the plan is to use the time to bring our magical and non-magical communities together…to advance both our race and our technology enough that we can be more evenly matched when the time comes.”

“So what’s the catch?” Petunia asked, shrewdly.

Harry glanced at Malfoy and Millicent. “We’re going to lose our magic,” Harry said. He hesitated.

“What?” Petunia said. “Why?”

“The spellcasters all lost their magic the first time,” Harry said. “All…big magic, things like this, where we’re asking magic to do something really outstanding for us, requires some kind of sacrifice.”

“Can the three of you really do a spell big enough to affect the whole planet?” asked Petunia. “That seems awfully out of proportion.”

“No, like we started to say in our press conference, we need help. We’ve adjusted the spell to use conduits to amplify our magic. We think we can use Muggle volunteers to be those conduits. If we get enough, they’ll amplify our magic enough to cover the earth.”

“How many do you need?”

“About one-percent of one-percent of the Muggle population on earth,” Harry said.

“But there’s nearly seven billion people on the planet!” said Petunia.

Harry nodded miserably. “I have no idea how we’re going to coordinate that, or even get the word out. And we can’t go on telly again—the ICW is out for our blood and they’ll find us.”

“Well you’ll need to put it online, of course,” Petunia said, sipping her tea.

Which reminded him of Hermione’s email. He wanted to call her, but he couldn’t implicate her in this...every time they passed a phone box, he nearly did it, but he always changed his mind at the last minute. It was too much to ask. He wouldn’t see her end up magicless in Azkaban with them. Albus needed a godmother, and her own kids needed a mum. That being said, she was probably having several litters of Kneazle kittens by now.

“Right, but I only have Hermione’s email address,” Harry said. “Well, and Dudley’s. How do I tell Muggles about it?”

Petunia looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Have you never heard of social media?”

“Oh! Do you think I should get a Facebook and write about it on there?” Harry asked.

Petunia continued to stare at him. “Aren’t you and Dudley teaching a class to magical children on how to interact in the non-magical world? You can’t seriously be graduating these children without giving them a course in using the internet.”

“We teach them the internet!” Harry said. “In sixth year, we have them start a blog, and create an email signature, and even teach them that they don’t need to say ‘please’ when typing queries into Google.”

Petunia looked amused. “And yet, you don’t teach them the real Internet,” she said. “You teach them bits and pieces, but not how to survive on the web—you don’t teach them that the internet has an entire separate culture from day-to-day life for us non-mag—for people without magic.”

“What do you mean?”

This time, he was certain her lips quirked up. “You let yourself get trolled by a bunch of silly lads on international television, and you didn’t even know it. When I saw that press conference, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream.”

“Mrs Dursley,” Malfoy said, “please speak plainly.”

“A double rainbow?” said Petunia. “‘What does it mean?’ Surely you’ve seen this.”

Harry had to admit he had not. Petunia stood and retrieved her laptop computer from her bedroom, brought it back to the kitchen table. She opened it, waited for it to wake up, and typed a few words. Then, she turned the computer to face Harry, Malfoy, and Millicent.

She tapped the trackpad and a video began to play. A man’s voice—surely on many drugs—as he described seeing a double rainbow in the sky. There was a great deal of ‘Oh-ing’ reminiscent of a good night in bed, followed by…crying.

They watched in stunned silence for the longest, most uncomfortable three minutes and twenty-nine seconds in Harry’s life. The video ended, and Petunia smirked.

“Dudley would’ve warned you, had he been there. This video spawned months of memes and internet jokes. It still gets some laughs, even three years later. You just revived the joke for people on the internet…worldwide.”

Harry scowled. Malfoy shrugged. “At least we guessed the correct construction of a double rainbow. It was stacked after all.”

“This is what I meant, about the shibboleth,” said Petunia. “That joke…it’s a shibboleth of sorts. Everyone who laughed when you said it live on telly felt like they were part of a single group; and when they all saw it actually work, _you_ became part of that group by extension. You were part of the shibboleth in that moment.”

He nodded, but he didn’t really understand the point of it. So they were in on an internet joke now. So what?

There was a ruckus outside the house, then a knock on the door. Petunia froze. “It’s the press again. Ignore it.”

“So how do we use this to our advantage?” Millicent asked. “How can we get sixty-nine thousand Muggles to help us cast a spell…when they only found out magic existed a few days ago?”

“Crowdsourcing, of course,” said Petunia.

“Like…” Harry trailed off. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a newer concept. But it’s a way to get many people to agree to support a single idea that they find valuable. Usually, it’s with money, but you just need pledges, right?”

Malfoy nodded. “We need people to stop what they’re doing at a particular time and focus on letting magical energy pass through them.”

Petunia cocked her head. “That sounds vague, but also an easy thing to pledge, so you should have some luck. You should set it up like a petition that people can sign to pledge. I can show you a website for it. After that, it’s just a matter of sharing it and getting people to see it.”

So Harry unshrunk his laptop and set it up on his Aunt Petunia’s WiFi, where she then, for the first time in his life, taught him how to do something that wasn’t cooking or cleaning. She pulled her chair around to his and guided him through creating an account, writing the copy with the date, time, and instructions for how to participate, and creating the petition.

It only took about fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes to solve a problem they’d been pondering for days, if not weeks.

Harry wasn’t sure if he was grateful or angry that the solution had been so simple. Provided Harry made it out of this in relatively one piece, he and Dudley were really going to have to revamp the Muggle Immersion curriculum. And probably actually change the class name to Non-Magical Immersion, because Muggle really did sound rather derogatory.

So they had a date now. Next Friday, at eleven in the morning, Greenwich Mean Time, the three of them would give up their magic in return for saving the whole fucking planet. Dudley was safe and they couldn’t put this off any longer.

If, that was, they could find enough volunteers.

“Now what?” asked Millicent.

“Now, I’ll share it on reddit and a few social media channels,” Petunia said, “and we’ll hope it gets picked up soon. We want it to go viral—and it very well may if the right people with the right followers see it. The media have been following my accounts since I was exposed, and they might be interested in sharing it.”

Harry shook his head, amazed. “How do you know all this? You didn’t even use a computer when I lived with you,” Harry said.

Petunia shrugged. “After Vernon’s death, I looked for a way to meet other people with my interests. I found reddit, and a gardening group there, in 2005. I also found a great deal of unsavoury content there, but it has, I think, made me wiser to the world. So in that regard, it was a blessing.”

“Then that leaves us with the alien in the corner,” said Millicent.

“What!?” said Petunia.

Millicent tipped her head back towards the sitting room. “I’ve been carting him around with us for days. Dunno what to do with him. I was planning to use him for ransom for Dudley.”

Petunia curled her lip. “You should kill it. I’m nearly certain they have some kind of…tracking technology. And they may not have magic, but they have technology that’s near enough to it. You saw it, didn’t you?” she asked Millicent.

She nodded. “The Levitation…and that light beam that moved him through walls.”

Harry shuddered. He remembered the Levitation, too. “They came for me before, and nearly got me. My dog saved my life…but I remember, it felt very…very evil. It’s probably not as helpless as we think, all tied up. I dunno if I want to kill it, though.”

Petunia shrugged. “As long as you take it out of my house when you leave. I don’t ever want to see another one again. I found mace works on their eyes, though, so I bought a can for every room.”

The conversation slowed after that. The day was a resounding success, but they all still felt drained. Even Petunia looked as if the weeks she’d spent under stress would take more than Dudley’s safe return to completely dissolve.

But their plan was in action. The path was moving forward. Each step closer to safety—and the loss of their own magic.

Harry was ready. Or at least, he thought he was. He hoped he was.

“Thank you for tea, Mrs Dursley,” said Millicent. “And for all of your help today.”

Petunia put her hands on Millicent’s shoulders as they prepared to Apparate out. She looked Millicent over, studying her face and hair and stature. Finally, she smiled.

“Call me Petunia.”

Millicent smiled, nodded. “Thank you.”

She didn’t offer the same courtesy to Malfoy, but then again, Malfoy wasn’t shagging her son and probably not too invested in the relationship.

“Essex next?” asked Millicent. “No one ever thinks of Essex on purpose.”

Harry nodded. “If you know a spot there to set up the tent.”

“I do,” she said.

They took hands, Millicent grabbing onto the invisible alien again.

“Harry…” Petunia said, just as they were about to Disapparate.

He turned back, forcing a neutral expression. “Yes?”

Her mouth worked through several expressions, finally settling into a grimace. “Something happened to me a few weeks ago. I started to feel—odd. Different. I didn’t like foods I’d liked before. I remembered things I’d long forgotten. Piers Morgan made me so angry I had to turn off _Piers Morgan Live._ And just as I was getting used to this, it hit me harder, just a week later. That’s when I started having the…the visions. But it wasn’t just visions. It was memories, too. Things that I know must have been true, but I hadn’t recalled at all. I saw something.”

He scrunched his eyebrows, took a step towards her. “Saw what?”

Petunia frowned, seemed to be at war with herself. Finally, she said, “Severus Snape.”

Harry blinked. He was _dead_. “When?”

“A long time ago,” she said, and he frowned, realising only in that moment how much he’d wanted to hear Snape was, somehow, against all odds, alive. “I was six or seven, walking home from school and I cut through an alley to get home sooner. I heard yelling, saw an old woman yelling at Severus and his mother in the street. I watched them for a time, until Severus and his mum went inside, and then the old woman spotted me—she aimed her wand at me and cast a nasty-looking spell, but somehow I jumped out of the way…landed on the roof of the house beside me. She looked so mean…and stunned. Surprised. Then she cast another spell at me, and this one hit me, and I tumbled off.”

Harry could only stare at her.

She looked away. “It’s preposterous, I know. I never remembered that moment until a few weeks ago. When the memory returned, I tried to brush it off as an imaginative mind, but then I had other memories…when I was four and five. Little things. Reaching the biscuit jar without a chair; making the record player play a children’s album.”

She shrugged. “I remembered feeling differently before that day. Afterwards, I was always so…so angry. Even before—before Lily started showing magic. I was just always angry and afraid of everything. I think, somehow, I remembered that day without actually remembering it. I remembered magic hurt me…and that I should’ve had it, but couldn’t do it anymore.

“It’s no excuse,” she added hastily. “But I wanted you to know—there were many years when I was…not myself. I’m not even sure who I am now, or who I was supposed to be…but whatever happened, whatever your people did a few weeks ago, it helped me remember myself. And look…”

She gestured to all the flowers growing in windowsills, and the unnatural winter garden out front of her house. “I think it was wearing off for awhile now, but something snapped the last of it off. And—I just want you to know I’m grateful for whatever your people did to give me back this connection to my sister. And for taking Dudley in, letting him be part of your world even though he’s…he’s not magic. And—and I’m sorry, for how I treated you. It’s no excuse, but…I’m sorry. You are welcome here anytime.”

Harry stared at her for a few moments more, his heart pounding in his chest. Was she—? All this time, had his aunt had magic, buried deep inside her? If she had, why hadn’t her name come up on the Hogwarts list when she turned eleven? Why hadn’t Dumbledore come to sort out whatever had been put over her magic to block it? He had to have known— _right_?

He pulled his wand from his sleeve, and Petunia flinched. He felt, unaccountably, guilty.

“No,” he said. “Just…here.”

He handed her the wand, handle first. Petunia hesitated before wrapping her fingers around it. She looked up at him, confused.

“Just…give it a wave.”

Petunia did so, and three small silver sparks popped from the tip. Harry gasped. Petunia smiled, slowly, as if afraid she was imagining it.

It wasn’t a lot of magic…but it was some. She had enough that she should’ve been able to go to Hogwarts. She might not’ve been the best student at DADA or Transfigurations, but she would’ve been able to master Potions and Herbology…even Charms with enough practice.

“When this is over,” Harry said, “if I’m not jailed forever for breaking the Statute of Secrecy that is, I’ll take you to get fitted for a wand.”

She gave him a tiny smile. Perhaps the only genuine one she’d ever directed at him. “I’ll help you. However I can.”

“One more thing…” he said.

She looked at him, expectant.

“Did you see the double rainbow? The shibboleth?”

“No.”

He nodded. “It was only for Muggles.”

Then Millicent turned, and they disappeared, on their way to Essex.

*


	22. Chapter 22

Draco jumped at the loud crack that rent the air. The three of them froze, staring at one another in wide-eyed surprise.

“The fuck was that?” Millicent hissed. “Too loud for Apparition.”

“Is it…them?” Draco desperately wanted to know. “Did it sound like that when they took Dudley?”

Millicent shook her head.

“Worse,” Potter said, staring at the tent flap.

It was currently zipped, but as if he’d predicted it, the zips went flying in either direction, and the doorway opened.

“Hermione’s Apparitions get really loud when she’s angry,” Potter added, wincing.

“An unfortunate side-effect of studying a particular branch of magic in the Department of Mysteries,” Granger said, stepping into the tent. She had a scowl on her face and her hair was loose again, fluffing all around her face.

Weasley stepped in behind her, pocketing a cigarette lighter. He gave Potter an unimpressed, exasperated look.

“Really, Harry?” said Weasley. “Did you think we wouldn’t find you eventually?”

Potter winced again. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t find me in time, at least. Forgot about the Deluminator, to be fair.”

“So did I,” Weasley admitted. “Found it in my pocket when Hermione’s dad asked me to light his cigar.”

“Funny how that happens,” Potter said, strained.

There was a brief silence in the tent as Draco and Millicent stared at the new arrivals and the new arrivals frowned at Potter.

Finally, out came Granger’s furious tirade. “Harry Potter! What are you doing out here? Why didn’t you tell us what you were doing? Was this what you were planning all along? Have you gone soft in the head? Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning, you utter wanker?! In time for _what_?”

“Er,” Potter said, biting his lip. “I was trying to keep you safe. I don’t want to make you complicit…or feel obligated to participate.”

Granger chuckled darkly. “Of course you didn’t.” She narrowed her eyes. “Participate in the press conference?”

Potter shuffled uncomfortably. Draco sighed, flopped back on his bunk. Potter had no subtlety. No finesse.

“Participate in _what_?” Granger pressed. Potter still shilly-shallied.

Millicent jumped in, “We’re going to perform a spell on Friday that weaves a magical net around the planet and basically moves the whole damned thing to a parallel universe without aliens. It’s pretty big. Going to take a lot of magic, so we’re using Muggles as conduits—you probably saw the pledge webpage—and it’s going to permanently drain our magic at the end.”

The ensuing silence was the longest yet.

“Harry, you utter _arse_!” Weasley said.

“Hey, mate—”

“Don’t you ‘hey mate’ me when you’ve been gone three days, after exposing the entire wizarding world—“

“Magical world,” Granger interjected.

“Magical world,” Weasley continued, “without so much as a note and _then_ come out with this ‘losing your magic’ shit! Honestly, Harry, I really feel like going on telly and doing magic for every single Muggle in the world, reliving our seventh year in a tent, and then giving away your magic is something you should’ve, oh, I don’t know, mentioned to us first!”

“Is it bad?” Potter immediately asked. “Have you had problems with Muggles since the presser?”

“What—? No,” Weasley said. “That’s not the point. I mean, we might have problems if they figure out how to breach wards, but until then, most of us are just staying in the magical world. The point is Hermione and I have been literally _sleeping at the Ministry_ —during Hermione’s sabbatical, mind you—to have yours and Bulstrode’s and even Malfoy’s charges removed before you’re found and arrested. Do you know how many favours I’ve had to call in at the DMLE? Good favours, that I was _saving_. Do you know we haven’t seen Rose or Hugo since we left them at Hermione’s parents’ house after your presser? Do you know we’ve been looking for your sorry arse for days?”

Draco watched Potter deflate. His body mirrored it, slumping down. “Fuck, I’m really sorry.”

“Yes, you should be,” Granger said. “But not because we don’t want to put in the work. Because you’ve done that thing you do again! You tried to run off and save the world on your own without us to help you, and it’s really annoying and really old now. If you’d let us know what you were planning, we could’ve—“

“Talked you out of it,” said Weasley.

“Maybe,” Granger said. “But I can’t imagine, don’t want to imagine, really, that you would do something this monumental without it being the only option. And if that’s the case, we could’ve started helping sooner. We could’ve found you a loophole, Ron could’ve worked the DMLE, any number of things. Now we’re scrambling. So, _is it_ the last resort, Harry?”

“Yes,” Potter said, his eyes sliding to Draco’s.

Then he told them what they had to do, how Draco had figured out the spell and how Granger had unwittingly solved the problem of ‘not existing’ for them ages ago. He told them how it felt to be back in that tent again, that they’d all been sleeping next to Millicent’s alien the whole time, that he knew he was in over his head, and they still didn’t have a solution for everything.

“Tell me the full spell,” Granger said. “Have you got it with you?”

Draco passed her the parchment with the transcribed spell. She read it quickly through, frowned, then read it again.

“Okay,” Granger finally said. “Without having any time to really look into this spell, I can tell you right away you have no idea what you’re doing—even you, Malfoy—so we’re going to all retreat to the warmth and comfort of my parents’ house where we can have some proper tea while we figure this out. Dudley and your aunt should be there by now.”

“What?!” said Potter.

“Oh, didn’t we say?” said Weasley. “Hermione looked your aunt up in the tellyphone book and called her. Then she sent Dudley an official-unofficial homemade Portkey from the Department of Mysteries so he’s back from Spain—good job leaving the poor bloke there without even his wallet for a Muggle flight home, by the way. If only you’d spoken to your two rule-bending friends who work in the Ministry, amirite?” Granger cleared her throat. Weasley continued, “They’re driving down to London to sort this all out with us.”

“Fantastic,” said Millicent, chewing a stick of beef jerky while she began packing up her personal items. “Let’s get out of here then. Your parents going to be okay with the alien?”

Granger and Weasley looked over, seemingly noticing the prone creature for the first time. Weasley paled; Granger looked a bit green.

“We’ll make it work,” Granger decided. “Now, sort out this tent and let’s go.

*

Draco had not been in many Muggle homes—Potter’s aunt’s had been the first, actually—but he took a good look around because he expected he’d be seeing a lot more of them after all this was done. His own, probably.

The Grangers were better hosts than Dudley’s mother, but then again, they weren’t being hounded by press or waiting for news of their only child.

Mrs Granger opened the back door for them after Granger Side-Alonged him and Millicent one by one to her parents’ back garden. The crack of her Disapparition got steadily quieter with each one, she having apparently found inner peace from having a plan.

Mrs Granger had clear, dark skin and wore her hair in the same small French braids Granger had taken to wearing in recent years. She had a lovely, wide smile with gappy teeth, but it was Mr Granger who’d obviously contributed his blood to Granger’s own…sturdily sized teeth.

Weasley and Potter popped in with the alien, and Mrs Granger’s tidy eyebrows rose. She opened the kitchen door wider for them, one hand on her hip as she watched them file past.

“I’ve just put the kettle on,” said Mrs Granger, her voice slightly accented, though Draco couldn’t place it. “Come in and make yourselves at home.”

Granger kissed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks, Mum. The kids all right?”

“Watching Peppa upstairs,” Mrs Granger said. “I reckoned it would keep them out of your hair for a few hours.”

“Brill, thanks, Mum.”

“Go on, I’ll follow you in with the tea tray.”

Potter and Weasley both gave Mrs Granger a kiss on the cheek, though Potter looked rather abashed as he followed suit. Draco would too if he were on the receiving end of the stern look Mrs Granger was levelling at him.

“Alive again, Harry?” she asked archly.

“Er—I’ll just…” and then Potter scrambled after Granger.

Draco gave Mrs Granger a nod and a smile and followed Potter in. The rest of them were already seated on the couches and chairs in the living room. Mr Granger was speaking to Mrs Dursley and Dudley, and Draco felt an odd surge of something at seeing Dudley alive and, at least physically, well. He looked…slower than normal, his usual obnoxious cheerfulness dulled, but his whole demeanour changed when they walked in.

“Milly!”

“Dudley!”

Draco curled his lip at the following display. The strange surge of something he’d been feeling evaporated. Merlin, if he never had to see Millicent snog Dudley again, it would be too soon.

“I was so worried they got you, too,” Dudley was saying.

“No, I’m fine,” said Millicent. “I punched it, and it was fine.”

“And you caught one!”

“Yeah, it’s in the kitchen,” said Millicent. “Speaks Chinese—did you know?”

Dudley frowned. “I don’t think they all do. Some were speaking English to me while I was there—mind, I don’t remember much ‘cause I was so out of it—but I remember bits and pieces in English.”

Mr Granger perked up at this. “I bet they segment their research staff. If they’ve really been trying to reintegrate themselves on our planet, they’ll have wanted to understand how we’ve evolved without their influence, and they’ll have people studying all the major cultures.”

Mrs Granger brought the tea in and they busied themselves pouring tea and grabbing biscuits. Behind her, the television was flickering between different scenes, though the sound had been turned off. Every now and then, clips of their presser played. Draco had never seen so much of his own face, and he had been known for spending too long styling his hair in the Slytherin loos.

“‘People,’” Millicent repeated, lip curling. “I know they created us, but I still don’t like calling them people.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mrs Dursley spoke up. “They can try to understand us all they want, but they never will. They weren’t here for our history. They don’t speak the language of humanity.”

Everyone frowned, considering this.

“Let’s have another look at that spell,” Granger said.

Draco pulled out both parchments—the original translation given to them by Severus and his adjusted version—and spread it on the coffee table. Granger didn’t bat an eye at the Latin, and neither did her parents. They leant over the spell, reading. Draco watched her parents’ eyebrows furrow and move as they read through.

“Bit grim, that,” murmured Mr Granger, his finger resting on a line about half down.

“Surely that doesn’t mean—” said Mrs Granger.

“Christ, I think it does,” said Granger. “But here, it says…” she trailed off, eyes flicking between the papers. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. She read it through again, her fingers whitening against the wood.

“ _Shit_.”

“Hermione?” said Weasley, half standing.

“Ron,” she said, finally looking up. Her voice and face were both strained. She glanced to Potter. “Harry—you didn’t say…”

“Say what?” he demanded. “I told you everything!”

“Harry,” Granger said again. She looked agonised. “Harry this spell requires a big sacrifice. Didn’t the Queen tell you?”

“Of course she did, we told you!” Potter said, looking no less agitated. Draco could feel his own body tensing. They’d missed something. Something was wrong and—

“We told you everything,” Potter repeated. “We _know_ we’re going to lose our magic.”

“It’s not enough,” Hermione said. “It takes a life, too.”

Potter and Weasley both sat back down heavily.

“She didn’t tell us that,” Draco said, his voice strained. “She said she lost her magic. She’s still alive.”

“It doesn’t have to be the person leading the spell. It could be a designated offering.”

“So the Muggles aren’t safe?” said Potter. Draco rolled his eyes. “Is it like a lottery?”

Granger frowned at him. “The Muggles would be fine, Harry. It’s the people do the damn spell who could die!”

“What about the alien?” Millicent asked. “Can we use it?”

Granger bit her lip, shook her head. “A willing volunteer.”

“Well, I’ll do it, then,” said Potter.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Draco said at the same time Weasley huffed and added, “Here we fucking go again.”

Draco glared at Weasley, who merely shrugged.

“Potter, you are not going to do that,” Draco said.

“Who _else_ is it going to be?” Potter asked. “Millicent and Dudley are, like, perfect for each other, and you’ve got Scorpius—“

“And you have _Albus_!” Weasley interjected, face white. “Don’t you ever remember him?”

“Of course I remember him!” Potter said. “He’s my son!”

Weasley’s scowl didn’t change. “He’s worried sick about you, you know. Mum and Dad have been doing their best. Did you even say goodbye? Did you even think of him just now when you, yet again, volunteered to throw your life away?”

“I _love_ Albus,” Potter insisted. “He’s my only living son.”

“But he wasn’t the first one,” Granger added, quietly.

Potter scowled. “I _love him_ , I really do. I love hanging out with him and teaching him things. I just don’t…fuck, I don’t know. I feel better making the world a better place _for_ him instead of _with_ him, because when I’m with him, I wonder if I’m a terrible parent for being happy with Albus when…when James didn’t make it.”

“Oh, Harry,” Granger said.

Potter’s aunt looked on, horrified. The Grangers senior were pressed back in their chairs, as if trying to escape the conversation. Weasley had his head in one hand and Millicent and Dudley looked deeply uncomfortable.

Draco was just pissed off.

“Potter, get over yourself,” he said. “You are such a wanker. You have a living son who likes you and loves you and you’re not a terrible parent, so just enjoy parenthood and stop living in the past like a fucking wanker, which you are. Also, I would be really fucking pissed off if you just threw your life away after we’d only just started looking to see if this thing between us could go anywhere.”

“Er,” said Potter, blinking. “I don’t—”

Draco ignored him. “So, the most logical thing is to draw straws—”

“Christ,” Dudley said, shaking his head. “You’re as bad as each other.”

“I agreed to give up my magic, not my life,” Millicent added. “In case it was unclear. I’m not drawing any fucking straws.”

“Oh, my god!”

They turned to Mr Granger, whose eyes were glued to the screen of the quiet telly. There was a huge fire burning in Atlantis. Words were flashing urgently across the bottom of the screen. Guards were battling the flames over smoking ruins of the castle, and in the sky, there were dozens of black ships.

Mrs Dursley squeaked, her hand flying to her mouth.

“The Queen—” Potter started.

Half the palace had been blown away in some explosion, the rest of it on fire. The Muggles filming it were somehow floating in the air, for the shot was an aerial view. The beautiful fountain in the centre of the promenade leading to the palace was cracked, water pouring all over the cobbles.

There were bodies. Everywhere. Bodies in the red of the guards’ uniforms, bodies in the brightly-coloured linens of the city folk, bodies of the strange Atlantean house-elves, bodies of Salukis and Pomeranians, and near the Queen’s demolished garden, one black Cane Corso, lying limp by the succulents.

Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away. And still the fires burned and the people ran. It was like a wizarding photograph, with the same scenes repeating again and again, although Muggles had found a way to do it for longer stretches of time. And then they’d show the ships again, hanging ominously above the island like rotten fruit.

The television changed to a view of Paris, of _le Marché de la Magie_ , France’s largest magical community tucked into wizarding space beneath the _Arc de Triomphe_. Bodies everywhere, most of them dressed in fashionable European thigh- and knee-length robes, some of them, to Draco’s utter horror, in play robes. Cities all over the world flashed by on the screen, most of them wizarding, but many Muggle, too.

“Oh, god, it’s too late,” Mrs Dursley said, her voice high. “This is what I saw in my visions. They’ve started!”

“It’s not too late,” Potter said firmly. “We can still do the spell.”

“We’re going to help,” Granger said, firmly.

“The hell you are!” Weasley and her parents said at once.

They all stopped, listening for noise upstairs, but some childish voice was still nattering on from the upstairs telly, and there were no suspicious footsteps above. Weasley pointed his wand at the stairs and added a silencing spell.

“You are _not_ going to risk your life, Hermione,” Weasley said firmly. “And neither are you, Harry.”

“So, just between me and Draco, then,” Millicent said, eyes narrowed.

Weasley huffed. “No, none of you. We’ll figure this out. There has to be another way. We’ll just…find a way to make the alien willing, right? _Imperio_ should do it.”

“Ron!” Granger said, scandalised.

Weasley ignored her. “Needs must, Hermione. We need to get to the island and see if we can find the Queen. Find out if she’s still alive. You said you need to do the spell on Atlantis, right? Because of all the leyline crossings there?”

“How are we going to get there?” asked Draco.

Dudley rubbed his chin. “Reckon I could get Piers to fly us out. He’s got a private seaplane. Holds eight.”

Potter gaped. “Piers Polkiss,” he repeated, dubious.

“Yeah, did pretty well for himself with the markets, you know?” said Dudley. “Got his pilot’s license a few years back, now he flies all around the bloody planet, posting obnoxiously idealistic pics to his Instagram.”

“Ah,” said Potter. “That does sound like Piers. You think he’d help us?”

Dudley grinned, a bit wryly. “Bet he’d help _you_.”

“What?” said Potter, scrunching his brows.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You tell him to keep his hands to himself, Dursley.”

Dudley laughed. “Nah, he’s a good chap these days. Obnoxious about travelling, but a good friend. Plus, he’s bloody freaked about these UFOs. He’ll help us. I’ll call him.”

Dudley got up, pulling his mobile from his pocket, and stepped into the back garden. The rest of them were still stuck in that strange, nervous energy where they didn’t know whether to run or fight. Draco’s eyes kept moving back to the telly. Atlantis was still burning. At the bottom of the screen. A ribbon of text scrolled by:

_Alien Apocalypse! Black ships firing upon major cities, magical encampments exposed._  


Draco kept looking, but neither Diagon Alley nor Hogwarts showed on the screen. Thank fucking Merlin for small mercies.

*


	23. Chapter 23

Draco had never flown on an aeroplane before, but it was louder than he’d expected. Even with their group’s utter silence for most of the four-hour journey, the machines that ran the airplane were loud and constant in his ears. Potter kept pulling at his left ear, frowning. Draco almost reached out to weave their fingers together, but something stopped him. Fear, probably.

In the front, Dudley sat in the co-pilot’s seat, a thermos of tea in one hand, while he and his friend chatted over their electronic earmuffs to one another. Millicent was sat in the next seat back, with the alien next to her, listening in through her own earmuffs, but contributing nothing. She just stared out the window, frowning. Granger and Weasley sat behind them, hands clenched tightly together, while Granger read through the spells again and again, making notes in the margins with a lead pencil.

Draco had not been able to reach Severus. He hoped it was due to the palace walls where his portrait was anchored being destroyed, and not Severus’s portrait itself. Still, he kept pulling out the shrunken landscape-with-Scotties oil painting he’d taken from Potter’s walls, hoping he’d show up.

Draco hoped the Queen was still alive. He hoped it wasn’t too late. He hoped the Muggles would help them now, even though they were all scrambling to save their own lives and cities. He hoped they could do it.

Draco had once had the same odd dream for many weeks in a row.

After the war, when his mind was just this side of sane, and he was still sleeping in a Ministry holding cell, he would wake up feeling strange and confused every morning.

In his dream, he relived the horrifying final moments of the day of the final battle, when the Dark Lord had hit Potter with yet another Killing Curse, and Potter was dead, or briefly dead, or faking dead entirely—Narcissa had never been sure. Hagrid held Potter in his arms, fat tears probably drowning the boy if he weren’t in fact already dead, and the Dark Lord was speaking at length.

Draco never remembered what the Dark Lord said. It was always just outside of his hearing—an insect’s droning buzz originating at Potter’s limp form—while Draco’s world began to burn like Fiendfyre.

At that moment, Draco had lost all hope.

But that was where the dream skewed from reality. In the dream, his parents were standing behind the Dark Lord—which had not happened—and they were frantically gesturing for him to come to them, to escape with them. Between him and his parents, the Dark Lord soliloquised.

Then, Draco was being called to _him_ , forced to walk the widening chasm between their bodies and feeling more like he was signing his own execution order. But beyond the Dark Lord were his parents, and Draco could never leave them to that fate alone. So he’d walked, his muscles tensing and revolting, trying to force him to stay still, but he was the master of his own body, and he walked.

And when he reached the Dark Lord, the Dark Lord beckoned him in and…hugged him.

That had never happened. That never _would have_ happened.

To think—a legitimate psychopath like the Dark Lord—hugging _anyone_. Draco had no idea what the fuck his subconscious had been trying to tell him in those early days after the war.

The day of his trial came, and Potter had shown up. Potter had testified for him. Draco had walked that day just like in the dream—not free, certainly, but at least not to Azkaban. He’d been escorted to his home and locked within the grounds for the next five years.

The first night of his semi-freedom, the dream changed. That night, Potter jumped down from Hagrid’s arms, alive and vibrant, and instead of the Dark Lord, Draco hugged _him_.

He’d woken up the next morning assured he was taking leave of his senses. He’d gone through the stages of grief. He’d accepted it. What else was he going to do for the next five years, after all?

Today, flying along over the Atlantic in a loud Muggle machine, Draco remembered those weeks of dreams, and honestly wished the Dark Lord were alive right now to give him an awkward, confusing hug.

It sounded considerably nicer that what he was about to do, anyway.

Potter reached between their seats and took Draco’s hand, squeezed it so hard it hurt. Which, Draco supposed, was like his dream coming full circle again.

“Scared?” Draco asked through their electric earmuffs, feigning nonchalance.

“More than anything,” Potter said.

Millicent rolled her eyes at them, eyeing their joined hands with disdain. “There’s no reason to be afraid. What are you two? Ravenclaws?”

“Ravenclaws are definitely cowards if their Arithmancy shows a low probability for survival,” Potter agreed absently, but his face was white and his eyes flicked around the cabin in agitation.

Millicent frowned at them, disappointed. “You both need to get it together. There’s no choice. We either do this, or the aliens come and zap every magical person to bits. And then we’re all dead. So, this isn’t a _choice_ , this isn’t something to be scared of, because it doesn’t matter what the outcome is. No matter what, it’s better than the alternative. No matter what, it’s less scary than that.”

Potter took a deep breath. “You’re right.” He sat taller. “You’re right.”

“It’s just magic,” Draco told himself. “I know how to use the internet. I know how to board an aeroplane. I have transferrable skills. I can live as a Muggle.”

At the front of the plane, Dudley’s friend chuckled, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“We’ll still be able to see Hogwarts, right?” Potter asked.

Millicent shrugged. “Minerva had to cast a spell for Dudley to see it the first time, remember? She can always cast that on us.”

“Will we be Muggles or Squibs?” Draco wanted to know. “Squibs can see magic.”

“That’s true,” Millicent allowed.

“Squibs,” Granger interjected. “You’ll still have magical cores, just nothing filling them.”

“Nearly there,” Piers said. “About five minutes until we land—coordinates still the same?”

“Yeah,” said Potter. “For the Queen’s garden.”

“Roger that. Everyone put your seatbelts on, I’m starting the descent now.”

Draco held tight to the armrest as the aeroplane’s machines slowed down and they began a slow, gliding fall to the sea. His stomach flipped, and he was reminded of that time he’d tried a Wronski feint and thought his insides were going to fall straight through his gullet.

Draco peered out the window. There was only one black ship still hanging over the island, but he had no doubt more would return. This felt so fucking stupid, flying right into the path of danger, but like Millicent said, there were no good alternatives.

The aeroplane hit the sea a few hundred metres from the shore outside the Queen’s destroyed garden, skipped over the waves in sloshy bounces that made Draco regret having ever eaten anything in his entire life. He should’ve used that Anti-Seasickness Spell he’d learned from the Atlantean Sailor’s journal, but hadn’t thought of it in time.

They came to a stop by the sea wall, and Piers jumped out to tie the plane to an iron boat cleat that was somehow still attached to the cracked pillar built into the sea wall.

Draco undid his seatbelt with shaking fingers, stepped unsteadily from the plane onto the stone wall. Waves sloshed against it, rocking the plane and nearly unseating Draco’s foot from the stone. Piers grabbed his hand quickly, helped him ashore with a small smile.

“Bit weird the first few times,” he said. “You get used to the movement.”

Draco gave him a nod in return. Potter followed, and Draco tried not to get annoyed at the brighter smile Piers gave him. It really wasn’t the time to be jealous and anyway, Potter was too dazed to even notice. Once they were all ashore, Draco led them through the ruins of the Queen’s garden into her receiving room.

Seeing the smouldering, broken wooden beams, the crumbled stone and stucco facades, felt like a personal attack. This was Draco’s childhood. This was his fairytale. And they’d destroyed it. He sneered up at the sky, for all the good it would do them.

“Hello?” Granger called, as they stepped over the broken window panes, crunching into the Queen’s once-beautiful tapestry rug. “Is anyone here?”

Silence echoed, and Draco was beginning to despair that this was all for naught, that after all this, they’d still be doomed to a fiery death from above, when Galene, the Queen’s elf, popped in.

Her toga was singed and her hands were bandaged, but she was alive.

“You’ve come,” she said, her voice hoarse. The translation spell grated against Draco’s ears, but his Greek was too rough to go without it. “We were afraid you would not.”

“Is the Queen—?” Draco began.

“Her Majesty is alive, but injured. I’ve taken her to the caves. They’re safest from the Creators. Come with me, hurry.”

Draco shared a look of relief with Potter. Potter reached out, his fingers touching Draco’s wrist, and that one gesture did more to reassure him than anything else could have.

Galene led them through a broken door beyond the Queen’s toppled privacy screens. It led to a rough-hewn corridor, with steep steps leading down. Torches on the wall were lit by Muggle candles, some burnt so low they would soon go out. Draco dragged his fingers along the wall for balance as he descended, his legs still wobbly from the aeroplane. Their footsteps echoed like distant thunder, on and on they went.

They must have descended four or five stories by the time the path levelled out. Murmured voices floated in, bouncing off the damp stone walls and echoing like thousands of whispers.

They still hadn’t decided who would be the one to offer his life, but Draco already knew the answer. He couldn’t let Potter die. And Potter would make sure Scorpius was loved and taken care of. He would understand how important that was. It would have to be Draco.

This felt like a sacred place. The cool stone and the susurration of voices made it feel like it was important that they were here. It felt like Draco’s decision was the right one. He was scared, but he was resolved.

So he just held Potter’s hand as they walked, replaying that stupid dream over and over again and feeling a strange, detached sort of calm.

The sound of running water came as they travelled deeper into the caves. It was a low whoosh by the time Galene brought them to the Queen.

Her Majesty was sat in a wicker chair, her arm and face bandaged, black blood caked to her hair. The rushing water was louder here, the sound echoing off the walls. Before the Queen, there was a wide, underground river, the water sparking with blue and gold flashes of magic as the streams rushed in two directions at once. The leyline crossings. Draco had never seen anything like it.

“You came,” said the Queen, her eyes flickering with the gold and blue sparks from the river. “We wondered.”

“Your Majesty,” they all murmured, bowing and curtseying as necessary. Dudley’s friend Piers looked around the stone room, his mouth gaping. Weasley and Granger weren’t doing much better.

The Queen nodded and they entered fully into the cave room. She was surrounded by her remaining guards and Council and one of her two huge Cane Corsos. She had Severus’s portrait in her uninjured hand. Draco felt a surge of relief at seeing him mostly undamaged, save for a crack in the gaudy frame Dudley had got him from Waterstone’s. But what stopped Draco short was the other, smaller group of people standing with her.

“Mr Koetsu,” Potter said, stepping forward to shake his hand. The reporter smiled tightly, though they didn’t share any common languages to converse.

“I invited a select few of the reporters from our first press conference. We were discussing press coverage of the ritual when the attack came,” said Queen Sostrate.

The translators burst into speech, their voices soft and echoing.

The Queen’s face turned sad, and she added, “Many of my people were killed today. Galene and her sisters throughout the island report hundreds of casualties, though I’m thankful most were able to get to the caves in time. They remember the last attack.”

Her remaining Cane Corso whined, and she murmured to it soothingly. It moved closer to her wicker chair, curled up again, head resting on her feet.

“Your Majesty,” said Draco. “We should do the spell as soon as possible.”

Sostrate dipped her head. “Yes. This is where we did it the first time. The magic is strongest in this spot.”

“There is one thing, Your Majesty,” Granger spoke up. Draco withheld a sigh.

“Yes—?”

“Hermione Granger, Your Majesty.” She firmed her mouth, deliberated, said, “I wonder if you forgot to mention the part of this spell where someone would have to give their life for it.”

Sostrate smiled genuinely. “Not at all, Ms Granger. One of my Council did give his life the first time we performed this spell. And someone will again this time.”

“Another of your Council?” Granger pressed, frowning.

“Not this time,” said Queen Sostrate. “A Queen cannot ask a sacrifice of her subjects she would not give herself—I was overruled last time, but it is my turn now.”

“Your Majesty,” Millicent said, “we thought we’d use the alien instead. Weasley here reminded us of a spell we could use to make it a willing sacrifice. We can’t keep it alive and we’d rather not have to take your life.”

The Queen smiled. “Ms Bulstrode, I assure you, I am quite willing. It would be a great honour to serve my people this way, one last time. My Council has already put together a succession plan that I quite agree with.”

The Council in question shifted, unhappy, but nodded.

For his part, Draco did not understand the relief that flooded him. It was stronger than anything he’d ever experienced. Stronger than after the battle, stronger than after his sentencing. Stronger than the day he left the Manor for the first time after his house arrest was up. The closest thing he could compare it to was Scorpius’s birth, even though that wasn’t relief at all. That was something different.

This felt like he was being given something he didn’t deserve. The chance to spend another day with Potter. To see his son again—to see their sons _together_.

Abruptly, Potter turned to him and grabbed him in a tight hug. “I was going to do it, anyway,” he whispered against Draco’s ear. He squeezed harder, and Draco returned it as hard as he could. “But I’m really glad to have more time with you after this.”

Draco didn’t know what to say, so he just kept hugging Potter, feeling both grateful and ridiculous, until they had to pull away out of decency’s sake.

“Thank you,” Potter said to the Queen.

She gave him a soft smile.

“Why don’t we offer both?” said Millicent, still frowning. “Then, magic can choose its own offering. Giving magic a choice of offerings is said to yield the best chance of success.”

Granger and the Queen both frowned. The Queen conferred with her Council and Granger with her own notes, but they both came to the same conclusion.

“No spells to alter its willingness,” said Granger. “That would corrupt the magic.”

“Yes,” said Sostrate. “We are in agreeance.”

“Then we should begin,” said Draco.

“There’s just one more thing,” Granger added, and Draco could have jinxed her for not letting them just get this horrid thing over with. “This spell was designed for four casters. We only have three: Harry, Draco, and Millicent. A triad is powerful, but a quad is balanced and represents the four elements, which are important when casting a spell affecting the earth itself. I’ll act as the fourth.”

“No!” said Potter and Weasley together.

“Hermione, I’ll do it,” said Weasley.

Granger shook her head. “You need magic for your job.”

“So do you!” said Weasley.

She shrugged. “I have another job. And we have two children who need a parent good at defensive magic. You’re better at it than me.”

“Hermione—” Weasley pleaded.

“Ron, it’ll be fine. I can still research for the Department of Mysteries if they need it, and we’ll have an income from my books, and I was raised Muggle so it’ll be a lot easier for me to adapt than you. They need a fourth. We can’t risk this spell not working, because there’s no way we’ll be able to do it again if it fails. This has to be done, for Rose and Hugo.”

Weasley slumped, nodded miserably.

“The guards have established a magical relay for our reporters to share live recordings of the event. I know we planned it for tomorrow morning,” said Sostrate, “but I’m afraid we’re out of time. Do you think your volunteers will be willing to help today instead?”

Draco glanced at Potter, shrugged. He had no idea.

“If they can get word of it in time,” Potter said. “I don’t know.”

“Can you make my mobile reach WiFi, too?” asked Dudley. “I think I can help.”

The guards conferred with the Queen, who nodded, and one came over to fiddle with Dudley’s phone, tapped it with a small dagger, saying a few unintelligible words. Dudley took it back, tapped on the screen, and grinned.

“Brilliant. My Snapchat followers soared when I got abducted. I think I can get the word out if I can just go live…”

Dudley stared at his screen, then said, “Hey, everyone, you’ve probably noticed by now the fire and brimstone raining down from the skies. I hope you’re safe and your families are safe. If you pledged to help my cousin Harry perform a spell that would save the world, now’s the time. We’re doing it today.”

He continued on, posting a series of ten-second Muggle videos to the internet with instructions on what to do. He panned his mobile’s camera around the cave, showing them all where they were, what the leyline looked like, and which news channels to watch to follow the reporters’ coverage.

“You may begin the live recording,” Sostrate told the reporters, as Dudley continued offering instructions through his mobile.

The translators relayed this, and the three reporters moved in front of their cameras, explaining the scene to their viewers. Their voices echoed and mingled with Dudley’s as he talked.

Draco attempted to gather himself. This was it. This was the last time he’d ever cast an ancient spell. The last time he’d ever be part of magic like this. It was—he found he was at peace. Because Scorpius was safe with the Weasleys and Potter’s ridiculous mutt, and Draco was here with Potter…It felt like this was how it was always meant to end. With him saving his family and Potter right there with him at the end.

Potter gave him a small smile, but it reached his eyes, and that was all that mattered. He reached out, took Draco’s hand in his own, his fingers brushing against Draco’s wrist.

“This is going to work. We’re doing the right thing.”

Draco nodded, and squeezed Potter’s hand back. He was glad it was Potter here with him. Potter had always been so sure of his own moral compass, and Draco…had not.

If Potter was sure, then Draco was sure.

“This is the leyline crossing?” Millicent asked quietly.

Queen Sostrate smiled at the sparking river, nodded. “Yes. There’s no water table beneath it; magic has kept it running for millennia. Lovely, isn’t it?”

Draco had to admit that was true. And in all his readings on Atlantis, both as a child and an adult, he’d never made a connection between the ‘font of power’ that kept Atlantis going and had contributed so much to its success—and this actual water fountain—or river, rather.

“Okay,” said Dudley. He frowned at his mobile and grinned again. “A hundred and thirty-thousand viewers on the last Snap. Should be good.”

“Damn, D,” said Piers. “I didn’t even get that many on my video of Bermuda’s whirlpool.”

Dudley smirked. Draco caught Millicent watching him fondly and felt unaccountably sad that they’d dragged her and Granger into this.

“Ready?” Sostrate asked. The single remaining Cane Corso followed her until she put a hand out. It stopped and sat, whining.

Draco felt his mind shift into historian mode. He knew this spell inside and out. He’d read the account of its only other performance, and heard it from the Queen, too. He’d gone over it in his mind. He’d made the necessary Arithmantic adjustments for this new spell. He was ready.

“We will form a square around the—around the offering.”

“Ah,” the Queen said. She set Severus’s portrait on the fountain’s edge, angled for viewing. “Where shall I lie?”

Potter frowned, but said nothing.

“Just here, before the river,” Draco said, swallowing. “We’ll lay the alien here.” He pointed to a spot next to the centre. “And—Queen Sostrate, if you’ll lay next to…it.”

Sostrate smirked, amused. Galene popped away and immediately returned with a luxurious padded quilt and pillows, slightly burnt around the edges. She arrayed them for the Queen. The Queen stepped forward onto the pallet and lay back, showing no sign of discomfort, though the dampness must surely be seeping through the cotton and wool blanket. Galene hurried to arrange her burgundy toga appropriately, wiping conspicuously at her own eyes as she stepped back.

“And the alien,” Draco added.

He had barely noticed the camera people moving into position to film the entire thing. The three reporters had handheld microphone recorders and bright, manufactured light lit up the cave.

Millicent untethered the alien from her wrist and dropped it next to the Queen, laying it alongside her, but careful not to touch her with it. The Queen turned her head to look at the alien, still _Stupefied_ , as it had been for days now. She didn’t look afraid or repulsed. She looked—almost nostalgic.

Then, to Draco’s great surprise and discomfort, the Queen spoke a few words in a strange language, a language unlike anything Draco had ever heard—a language the Translation Charm didn’t even bother to attempt translating—and reached out to take the alien’s hand. Sostrate closed her eyes.

“And now?” said Queen Sostrate.

Draco swallowed heavily, shared a look with Potter who looked just as uncomfortable as he did. These beings—these aliens who were trying so hard to eradicate an entire branch of their human race—had once been at ease with the Queen and her family. They had once spoken to them regularly, taught them and trained them and guided them. They had once been the people showing the Atlanteans how to thrive and advance their civilisation.

Surely, somewhere, in that evil-looking creature, there was something—something _human_.

Even Millicent looked away.

Draco cleared his throat. “Now, the four of us will form a square, seven feet to each side, with me at the head of the offering.”

Potter, Granger, and Millicent positioned themselves at the Queen’s and the aliens’ feet and side, casting distance-measuring spells from their wands to make sure they had exactly seven feet on all sides. It took some manoeuvring, the blue lines from the measuring spells connecting their bodies, for the four of them to get a perfect square. When they did, Draco mentally checked it off his list.

“Dudley, do you have a way to ensure all the non-magical volunteers are ready to assist?”

“Yeah, I’m looking at the pledge site now,” said Dudley, his face illuminated by the glow of his mobile.

“Is there anything you need Mistress?” Galene said, hovering as close as she could without intruding on the spell space.

“No, Galene.” Sostrate peeked one eye open and glanced at the elf, adding, “I will miss you; you’ve always gone above and beyond for me.”

Galene started crying.

“Is that all you’ll miss?” came Severus’s mulish voice.

Draco jumped, having nearly forgotten his portrait was there.

Sostrate laughed, eyes closed again. “With any luck, and by magic’s grace, we’ll be in the same place after this.”

Draco forgot to breathe. He caught Millicent’s eye, and she looked just as horrified as he felt. He shook his head. Severus in any sort of romantic engagement was confusing enough, but to add in the fact that he’d waited until he was dead to do so was…was really _just like_ Severus, actually. Draco was annoyed.

 _‘She likes Snape?!’_ Potter mouthed to Granger and Weasley, who both looked alarmed.

Draco cleared his throat. “Have our pledges all checked in?” he asked Dudley.

“Forty-two thousand so far,” said Dudley. Piers was looking over his shoulder.

“We have a few moments then,” said Draco. But he didn’t know what to do with them.

Just then, a huge, echoing explosion rent the air, shaking the walls of the cave. Granger looked around nervously. Weasley cast a shielding spell around them all in case the caves collapsed, and kissed Granger hard before retreating to a magically-safe distance.

The Queen opened her eyes, stared up at the blank, stone ceiling above them, and took a steadying breath. “We must hurry. They know we’re doing something.”

The camera people and reporters aimed their devices at the ritual grid, talking rapidly into their microphones as they narrated the scene.

“Fifty-thousand online and ready,” Dudley said, his voice voice carrying over the rushing river and Draco’s thoughts.

Draco nodded. If he stopped, rested his mind, he could hear the echos of the sea above, water sloshing overhead, eroding the stone into soft, smooth gullies. The guards flanked the room’s only entrance, spears ready. They would know if the ICW caught wind of their online crowdsourcing event, but Draco wasn’t entirely confident the guards could hold off ICW wizards forever. This tense stalemate they’d been engaged in with Atlantis since their presser was near to breaking. It wouldn’t take much provocation for the ICW to decide it wasn’t worth keeping peace with Atlantis after all. He hoped they could protect them if the aliens found them first.

“Sixty-five thousand,” Dudley said, eyes on the screen. “Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight—sixty-nine!” He looked up at Draco, Potter, Granger, and Millicent. “That’s the full set. All the pledges are online and awaiting instructions.” He looked back down, his eyebrows raising. “Seventy thousand. It’s still climbing. We’ve got more online than originally pledged!”

Draco nodded shakily. “The spell works like this,” he began, barely noticing the three camera people coming around to get a better shot of him speaking.

“Harry Potter, Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione Granger, and I will channel our magic and the magic of the leyline here in Atlantis. The spell requires intense focus. Essentially, what we’ll be doing, so that you can understand what you’re seeing, is channelling the Earth’s own natural magic, which is very strong at this particular spot, into the magnetic field surrounding the planet. It’ll fly up there and bounce back from the field. When it finds receptive points, it’ll flow to and through them, amplifying its reach. You, our volunteers, are the receptive points and the catalysts. It’s you who will make this spell strong enough to save us all.”

One of the reporters, Mr Koetsu, raised his hand. Draco looked at him, waiting.

“May we ask a question?” his translator said.

Draco nodded.

The translator smiled, conversed with the reporter, and then said, “How do the non-magical participants become receptive to the magic? How do they focus?”

Draco frowned. “It’s like Occlumency.”

Potter snorted. “Non-magicals can’t do Occlumency, Malfoy.”

The cameras swivelled to him, and he looked as though he deeply regretted speaking. For a moment, Draco could see the boy who’d always hated having cameras flashing in his face, newspapers and wireless shows talking about him constantly.

It was appropriate that Potter was going to lose his magic while wearing jeans. It was so very Potter. Draco wished he was in Muggle clothes, too. Robes wouldn’t be much use to him after this.

And then the look passed, and Potter arranged his face into one more confident. It probably wasn’t even a projection, like Draco’s would be. Potter had probably _actually_ steeled himself, probably _actually_ given himself a little self-esteem boost.

“It helps if you close your eyes,” Potter eventually said, closing his own. “You need to clear your mind of extraneous thoughts…what you’re eating next, what your job’s like, what’s going on with your family. But all those things will seep into your head naturally, so the easiest thing I’ve found is to try to meditate on one thing. In this case, you could try meditating on the feel of energy coming into your body.”

Draco felt a small thrill, always at the most inopportune time. He wanted to know what it felt like when Potter did Occlumency, when he focused on feeling energy come into his body.

Instead, Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, does that answer your question?”

The translators relayed this, and the reporters nodded. The live-streaming reporter from the press conference, Puebla Piazza, was one of the three the Queen had invited, and she consulted with her smartphone before nodding.

Draco looked directly into the camera. “I want to be very clear to our pledges. This spell will take our magic—and the life of either the Queen of Atlantis or our captured alien…or both. Nothing so grand could ever work without major sacrifices. We’ll only be able to attempt this once, so when we say we need your concentration to save our world from these extraterrestrials, we mean it. We need you to give us _everything_ you have. Magic will know if you’re multi-tasking or not particularly caring about the outcome. You have to _want_ to help us, you have to _trust_ that it’ll work, you have to want to keep the aliens away from our planet and our people.”

“We’re up to one-hundred-and-four thousand,” Dudley added, quietly. He raised his eyebrows, added, “Some of these new people in the comments claim to be magical.”

“Fuck,” said Potter.

Millicent snorted. “Of course Dudley’s the one to drum up all the support,” she murmured. Dudley shot her a grin, which she returned.

Draco had to agree. He and Potter were certainly not charismatic enough to engage a hundred-and-four thousand people.

“Anyone with magic who’s decided to join us, you are risking your magic. The spell _shouldn’t_ take anything from anyone but us—the four casters—but I can make _no guarantees_ ,” Draco felt the need to add.

Draco took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to begin the spell. When I finish chanting, this is when we need you to concentrate, focus all your attention on being open and receptive to magic passing through you. You are our catalysts and your placement around the world spreads our reach. When the magic makes the full rotation of the earth and has created a web around it, there will be a great surge of energy from this leyline. It’ll make that web permanent, like a shield, around the earth, and it’ll move us to a separate, unoccupied dimension, away from the aliens. You’ll know when that happens, and you can stop focusing then—the spell will be complete.”

“What about the aliens in the sky?” asked Mr Koetsu’s translator. “Will they come with us?”

“No,” said Draco. He frowned, trying to think of how to explain the workings of the spell, and then it hit him. “It’s like a shibboleth. The spell separates out those who know the password from those who don’t.”

“What is the password?” asked another reporter.

“Humanity,” said Draco. “Being born here, having the history of our species in your blood. For our species' entire history, we've all looked up at the same sky, the same stars and moons and constellations...but the aliens saw a different sky. This isn't their home. Magic knows.”

“Even for non-magical people?” asked the third reporter’s translator.

“Yes,” said Draco. “Magic is with everyone, even those who don’t have the ability to use it. Your body knows your history, even if you don’t.”

Draco pulled his wand. Potter, Granger, and Millicent followed suit. They aimed at the sky above the centre of their triangle. Draco had the sudden, ridiculous desire to be holding Potter’s hand for this, but…that wasn’t smart. He had to be strong right now, for Scorpius and Astoria and his parents—and for Potter, whom he desperately hoped he would get to share a cell with, if Potter’s name didn’t get them out of this.

He began to speak the words he’d memorised whilst lying in bed next to Potter in their tent, Millicent breathing deeply in the bunk above them. He closed his eyes, letting his mind focus on this one task, the Occlumency slipping naturally into place.

Magic pulled into him and out of him like Atlantean waves. He could feel Potter’s magic mingling with his own again—and Granger’s and Millicent’s too. He knew their magic intimately and completely in a way he’d never even known his own before. And he knew they felt his, too. It felt freeing and vulnerable at the same time.

No matter how long he lived, he’d never be this close to another person again.

The spell washed over them, surging in and out of their bodies as Draco’s voice rose and fell like the tide. The river jumped and sparked, the magic sparkling in a rainbow of colours.

Then, quite without realising it, he finished the string of chanting that would direct magic in how to respond. Draco’s mouth fell shut, magic settled heavy, still, and suffocating all around them.

Queen Sostrate screamed. Draco nearly fell back, ruining the grid, but caught himself just in time. The Queen’s body was arching up from the blanket, her lips stretched painfully wide over her teeth as she screamed her voice raw.

“Damn it!” Severus yelled, and there was something unprecedented in his voice, something that shocked Draco to his core.

Galene fussed, unable to approach, but horrified at the state of her mistress. The Council looked away, their eyes suspiciously wet. The Queen was dying, not at all peacefully.

Tears were running down Granger’s face, but her wand didn’t waver. Draco hadn’t had to watch anyone die in over a decade; he found the experience was not one he’d wanted to repeat. And then the alien started convulsing, though it remained Stupefied.

Magic wasn’t satisfied with one sacrifice then; it was taking both.

Abruptly, the Queen stopped screaming. She and the alien fell still and lifeless on the ground. The fog of magic rushed up, pushing them all back with its force, and Draco started counting in his head, his wand still raised, as they barely managed to maintain the grid.

 _One Quidditch pitches_ , he thought. _Two Quidditch pitches. Three Quidditch pitches_.

The earth had a circumference of 24,901 miles. If their pledges cleared their minds and let magic travel through them, amplifying and bouncing to the next catalyst, it should take three minutes and fourteen seconds to connect the web.

_Thirty Quidditch pitches. Thirty-one Quidditch pitches._

Neither the Queen nor the alien were breathing. Potter stared down at them both, looking so sad Draco feel the pain in his own body. He was up to a minute and forty seconds.

Draco’s arm was beginning to tire, but he didn’t lower his wand. Magic flowed from him without ceasing. A large, self-protective part of him wanted to lower his wand, to stop this drain, to stem the tide before it was too late, before he’d lost too much to ever regenerate it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let his family down. Couldn’t let Potter down. This was how he would redeem his family and save them, all in one act.

 _One-hundred and eighty. One-eighty-one_. They were almost there. If it worked, the magic would circle and return to its origination point at one-hundred-ninety-four seconds.

To think—a wizard could be made a Squib in just three minutes.

He began to feel weak. He was nearing the end of his reserves. Across from him, Potter staggered woozily, firmed his mouth and straightened. Draco watched, fascinated and horrified.

Potter was losing his magic.

 _Potter_ was losing his _magic_.

Draco felt hysterical. This couldn’t be real. He saw the magic draining right from Potter and was sure he was imagining it, for surely, of all people in the wizarding world, Potter would never lose _his_ magic. It felt wrong. It looked vulgar and unclean and Draco _hated_ himself for witnessing, for having any part in Potter’s destruction. Draco’s eyes were wet and he had no idea when it’d happened.

Granger made a small moan, her eyes fluttering shut. She reached up with her other hand, wrapped both around her wand to steady it. Weasley didn’t dare touch her for fear of ruining the spell, but Draco could see he wanted to.

_One-hundred-ninety-three…_

_One-hundred-ninety-four…_

The stream of magic flowing up from Draco’s wand sputtered, slowed to a stop. He felt as if he were looking in on himself from a remove. He was not part of his own body, not part of his own mind. His body was a foreign place where nothing lived and everything was dull. He was so tired…or the body he watched was, anyway…if he could only just sleep for a moment…

A great force crashed back into their cave, shattering Weasley’s protective shield, deafening Draco. But that was okay because he was already just a spirit, not a person, not tangible any longer.

Was this was magic felt like to Squibs, he wondered.

Was this blank force magic to Muggles?

Draco didn’t know. He would just rest for a moment…

*

Harry felt oddly empty. Like his soul was somewhere else and he was just a deserted body. Was this what it felt like to be Kissed by a Dementor?

No, he decided. Surely not. He wouldn’t have a mind to think with then. This was another kind of empty, perhaps just as desolate and lonely. He felt a loss like nothing he’d ever known, not even when they’d lost James. Nothing hurt but his heart.

“Harry.”

 _Ron_ , his mind said.

Ron was good and warm and cosy. Ron was a full life and nothing empty. Harry blinked open his eyes into a semi-dark room. _The Infirmary_ , his mind told him. Candles in the window around his bed, Poppy’s voice speaking quietly at the other end of the ward.

Ron let out a rush of breath. “You’re awake, thank Merlin.” He turned around, said over his shoulder, “Hey, Harry’s awake.”

“Hey,” said Harry. He tried to sit up, and it wasn’t all that difficult. His body worked just fine, though his mind felt as though it shouldn’t. “How long?”

“Three weeks,” Ron said. He reached out, grabbed hold of Harry’s hand like it was a lifeline. “You’re the first to wake.”

“Hermione?” Harry asked. “Draco?”

Ron frowned. “Still out. Bulstrode, too. But Madam Pomfrey and the St Mungo’s Healers here helping her and Mr Lao. She says their vitals are normal and they’ll wake when their bodies have learned to…to operate without magic.”

A sharp flash hit Harry in the gut, but he ignored it. He’d known that. He’d known they would be without magic. He nodded. “Did it work?”

Dudley, Petunia, Piers, and the Grangers appeared around the privacy screen. Dudley’s relief was almost tangible.

“Harry,” Dudley said, sinking down in the free chair and grabbing Harry’s hand, which did not feel like his usual hand, but the hand of some mannequin, empty of all life.

“I’m so glad you’re awake. I was dead worried, and our students have been by a thousand times already trying to see you. Ms Lovecraft is finally on the mend again and her parents brought you a huge package—smells weird, haven’t opened it. But guess what, it worked! You did it!”

Harry grinned, though the happiness he expected to feel was muted. “That’s fantastic.”

“And there’s something else,” said Dudley. “Look. Piers, show him.”

Piers looked uncomfortable, but accepted a wand, of all things, from Aunt Petunia, and flicked it. A small set of silver sparks popped from the tip like champagne bubbling over. Dudley took the wand from him and did the same. His sparks were red and gold.

“All of us Muggles who helped you cast the spell have got a little bit of magic now. Over two-hundred thousand people confirmed so far.”

Harry shouldn’t feel jealousy. He _wouldn’t_ feel jealousy. He had given his magic freely. It was not his concern how magic itself chose to use it. If anything, he should be happy—the more people in the world who had magic, the better off they’d all be when they next faced their Creators.

“Brilliant,” Harry said, and meant it. Most of him meant it, at least.

His own wand lay lifeless on the bedside table. Harry refused to look at it. He knew without touching it there was nothing left in him to wield it with.

A soft groan came from the bed next to him.

“Draco!”

“Harry?” came Malfoy’s muffled voice.

Malfoy blinked his eyes open. They looked softer than usual, lacking the spark they’d always held. He was still Malfoy, but Harry had never before realised what Malfoy would be like without magic in his veins, without that clean eucalyptus smell lingering in his wake.

“Hey,” Malfoy said, his smile woozy. “Where’s Scorpius?”

“My mum has the kids,” said Ron. “Ginny and Luna are on their way over. Astoria, too.”

Malfoy nodded, pulled himself up into a sitting position. He frowned down at his own hands. Harry knew exactly what he was thinking in that moment—how could one’s own hands feel so dead, so suddenly?

“The ships are gone?” asked Malfoy.

“Totally,” said Dudley. “Disappeared right before everyone’s eyes as soon as the spell completed. It’s been all over the news.”

“There’s something else,” Dudley added. “The Queen—she’s still alive.”

“What?” said Harry. “Really?”

Dudley nodded. “In a coma, but her vitals are normal. She’s in a private room by Poppy’s office, lots of guards and Galene…and Professor Snape’s with her.”

“He would be,” said Harry.

“No…not his portrait,” said Dudley. “ _All_ of him. When you four passed out, the alien went up in flames, and so did Professor Snape’s portrait, and when the flames died out, the ashes swirled around and, like, built him out of it. He’s sleeping.”

“Severus is alive?” Malfoy asked, gaping.

“Yeah,” said Dudley, rubbing the back of his neck. “No idea how you pulled that one off. Maybe magic just liked him better? I dunno, but she’s alive and so’s he. Poppy says he doesn’t have any magic, either, so maybe he somehow willed himself to be part of your spell.”

Madam Pomfrey rushed around their privacy curtain then, before Harry could fully process this, coming to an abrupt stop before their beds.

“You’re awake, thank Morgana.” She whipped out her wand and began running diagnostics over them, only stopping when she was satisfied they weren’t in imminent danger of death. “I’ll fetch Minerva and some chicken soup for you both.”

The evening passed, the sky darkening to black, until Poppy kicked everyone out and gave them another check over with her wand. Millicent and Hermione still slept, their chests rising and falling gently across the ward. Dudley and Ron didn’t leave their sides all night, managing to keep themselves occupied with a chessboard and a pack of Snap cards.

After Ron and Dudley fell asleep, it became quiet, but Harry tossed and turned. His body felt unnatural and his mind was a mix of worry and regret and relief. He crawled out of his bed and padded over to Malfoy’s. Malfoy looked up at him and there was, underneath the blankness, still a shimmer of affection there. Affection and something like happiness at seeing Harry.

They didn’t have magic, but they still had each other.

“Budge over.”

Malfoy complied, and Harry crawled into his bed, immediately curling around Malfoy’s thin body. He tucked his chin over Malfoy’s shoulder. It positioned them both to stare at Malfoy’s mute wand, set next to an untouched glass of water.

“Should we just try?” asked Malfoy, after a long moment.

Harry didn’t answer for the longest time. He didn’t want to feel the wand so lifeless as his own body felt. He didn’t want the proof of his loss. He knew where his magic was—it was in Dudley and Piers Polkiss and two-hundred-thousand other ex-Muggles. It wasn’t in Harry.

“I suppose,” he said.

Malfoy reached out, his fingers hesitating for a moment before they wrapped around the handle. He flicked it once. Nothing happened.

“ _Lumos_ ,” said Malfoy, flicking again.

Nothing.

Harry wrapped his hand around Malfoy’s, inhaling unsteadily. “ _Lumos_ ,” he said, moving their hands together.

For a moment, he thought he smelled eucalyptus in the air, but no…that was just a memory from long ago. Their magic had once sloshed together between them, but now it was no longer theirs.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Malfoy said.

He tossed the wand to the nightstand. It rolled off the side, clattering to the floor. Neither of them bothered to pick it up. They didn’t need it anymore. They just needed one another.

*


	24. Chapter 24

#  **August 19, 2017**

“Where’s Albus?” Harry asked.

“Upstairs with Sigourney and Scorpius,” said Petunia, as she poured him a cup of tea with three sugars, neatly ignoring Dudley’s and Millicent’s twin looks of disapproval. Petunia flicked her wand and sent everyone’s cup floating to them.

Harry took his, handed Draco’s to him. After four years, the sting was gone.

Millicent and Hermione didn’t seem to have ever experienced it, or if they did, they hid it well. The loss of magic hit Harry the hardest of all of them, which surprised him. Before all this, he would’ve said Draco would’ve taken the longest to adjust.

But Draco was a Slytherin, and they were nothing if not adaptable.

“Thank you, Petunia,” said Millicent, moving a blooming potted cactus out of the way to set her tea down. “Perfect as always.”

“Of course, dear. Now—where is your husband?”

“Should be at Trafalgar Square,” said Millicent. “He was finalising some last minute press passes.”

“Are you quite sure you really want to do this?” Petunia asked, her eyes flicking among the three of them. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m sure,” said Draco. Millicent nodded.

Harry smiled, and it wasn’t even forced. “Yeah, I’m sure. I want to do it.”

Petunia frowned at him for a long moment, then shook her head, smiled. “All right. Finish your tea and I’ll pop you all over.”

Harry sipped his sugared tea. Beneath the table, Draco’s fingers brushed his wrist and he looked over, found Draco smiling back at him.

“It’s better than we thought it would be,” he murmured.

Harry smiled a genuine smile just for him. “With you,” he said.

Draco’s lip quirked on one side. “Of course.”

“Ready?” said Petunia, returning to the kitchen with her handbag looped over her arm, a demure fascinator pinned to her hair. “Milly, dear, shall I take you first?”

Petunia popped out of the kitchen with Millicent, and Harry shook his head. The sting was gone, but the shock of seeing his aunt Apparate never left. Harry took the opportunity to press a kiss to the side of Draco’s mouth.

“I’d do it all again to be here with you,” Harry said.

Draco smirked. “I love you, too.”

Petunia popped back in. “Harry, you next.”

Harry stood up, drained the dregs of his tea, and took his aunt’s arm. Her Apparitions were not the most talented, but they were very precise. What she lacked in magical strength, she made up for in sheer bloodymindedness. She delivered him safely behind the press dais erected in Trafalgar Square, and returned once more for Draco and then the kids.

Ron popped in with Hermione and the kids, and Harry went to meet them.

“Harry!” said Hermione, smiling brightly. “Can you believe it’s really happening?”

“Yeah, barely,” Harry said with a laugh.

She was always so bloody cheerful, as if losing her magic had taken with it all her stress and worry. But then again, she’d been able to quit the Ministry fully without regret, work on her children’s novels full time. Harry was grateful he could still co-teach with Dudley, though Dudley now took the lead on the magical side.

Finally, Petunia had everyone in and took a seat in the reserved section with Albus, Scorpius, and Dudley and Millicent’s Sigourney, fanning her face with an agenda. It had been quite a magical workout for her.

Music began to play and the Prime Minister ascended the stage to wild applause. She smiled and waved, pandering professionally to the crowd.

“Welcome!” said the Prime Minister, and then launched into a politically oriented set of jokes and welcomes designed to get the crowd laughing and happy. It worked.

Harry leant his head against Draco’s shoulder, watching from their hidden spot behind the curtains at the end of the stage. Draco wrapped one arm around Harry’s waist. The wind changed and for a split second, Harry smelled eucalyptus, but then it was gone again. Someone’s aftershave, no doubt.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you,” Hermione said quietly, as they watched the Prime Minister continue to warm up the crowd.

“Hm?” said Harry, turning his head as little as possible to see her, so he wouldn’t have to take it off Draco’s shoulder.

Hermione bit her lip, grinning around the gesture. She opened her handbag and stuck her hand in. It disappeared up to her shoulder.

Harry frowned. “That’s a new bag. Did Ron do that for you?”

“Nope,” said Hermione. “I was just really frustrated that I couldn’t fit everything I needed in here, and when I opened it again, it was bigger.”

Harry straightened, his heart hammering. “You have magic again?”

“Not much,” Hermione said. “A bit. After this happened, Ron leant me his wand and I tried to _Accio_ something. It came to me, but it was really slow. And I couldn’t manage a _Nox_ or a _Lumos_ …or really, anything much at all…with a wand anyway. My theory is we’ve still got magic, but not _our_ magic. Not modern magic. The spell took our magic and gave it to all the Muggles in the web, and as a thanks for protecting it from the aliens, it gave us some of itself in return. Wild magic.”

“Wandless magic,” said Draco. “Like how they worked magic before wands?”

Hermione nodded. “We may never do normal spells again, but there is something in us. We just need to let it come to the surface, learn how to access it.”

Draco stared off into the crowd, gaping and blinking. Harry withheld a ridiculous laugh; he’d never seen Draco so stunned before.

“But there are tribes that still work magic this way,” Draco continued. “Ancient tribes that only master a few dozen spells over their whole lives. They use magic differently. We could visit them, learn how they do it.”

It was like a revelation to Draco. He shook his head in wonder.

Harry, for his part, was on the verge of tears. “We have magic?” he said again, just to hear the words.

Hermione nodded, then jumped to him, wrapping him in a hug so fierce it winded him. He didn’t even care. She’d given him the best news he’d had since Millicent delivered Sigourney.

“And now our honoured guests!” said the Prime Minister. “Queen Sostrate of Atlantis, Severus Snape, Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, and Harry Potter!”

That was their cue. They stepped out onto the stage. Across from them, the Queen entered with Snape and Millicent just behind. They met in the middle like they were coming onto a late-night chat show, waved to the roaring crowd, took their seats, with the Queen in pride of place at the centre.

“Four years ago on this day,” said the Prime Minister, “our species was saved from destruction. Though many lives were lost, and the rebuilding is ongoing, we are here today, alive and free, thanks to the great sacrifices of six people.

“Queen Sostrate offered her very life to protect us all, Severus Snape gave up the peace of an afterlife, and these four brave witches and wizards—and yes I say that on purpose, for despite their losses, they are still witches and wizards—gave their magic so we could live. In an ironic turn of fate, the magic taken from them was given to many of you.

“To many of _us_ ,” said the Prime Minister, retrieving a wand from her pantsuit and giving a little shower of sparks, to the audience’s great delight. Everyone cheered, and the guests on the stage gave appropriately happy claps, though Snape was still as ornery as he’d been in his first life. Living in Atlantis had changed little beyond his skin tone.

Queen Sostrate had begun to age, and they knew magic had given her another gift that day: the ability to die as a normal human did. Severus was much as he’d been the day he died, though he’d aged accordingly. But he was alive, and that was incredible magic all on its own.

“And now, four years to the day from that great sacrifice, I am proud to announce the launch of a brand new organisation dedicated to the education of all our citizens, both magical and non-magical, and advancing our human culture as one, amazing family.

“The Magical-NonMagical Coalition for an Advantageous Teamwork—MCAST—will help us to continue to understand how to live together, though we have lived separately for so long, and help us prepare future generations for our final fight against the Creators.

“As our favourite BBC morning host, Pet Dursley, tells us: we already know the shibboleth, but we have to work together to see one another as our own people. MCAST will facilitate that. Now, I’d like to invite to the stage Dudley Dursley, abduction survivor, Professor of Non-Magical Immersion at the magical school Hogwarts, and co-leader of MCAST’s education efforts, with our own Harry Potter.”

Dudley joined them on stage for a Q&A session. Questions flew. Harry answered without thought, his mind whirling with Hermione’s revelation. He took Draco’s hand, and Draco gave him a smile from the corner of his eye. The scent of eucalyptus washed over Harry, and this time, he knew, it was not a memory.

~The End~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](https://hd-erised.livejournal.com/96855.html). ♥
> 
> This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at hd_erised@livejournal.com. The author will be revealed January 8th.
> 
> DO NOT REPOST OR ARCHIVE THIS FIC ANYWHERE. (I can't believe I am having to put this notice up again. What happened to fandom etiquette?)


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